BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT
The camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. There was not one
breath of the usual invigorating mountain air. A few more degrees of
humidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled to
overflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheer
moisture. The sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it too
had been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against the
laden atmosphere.
The work of the camp went on. For hours human nature wrestled with a
growing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. But gradually, as the
day wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voiced
the general plaint. Men moved about slowly, their tongues actively
cursing. They cursed the heat as they mopped their dripping brows.
They cursed the flies, and hurled mighty blows for their destruction.
They cursed all work, and gold became the last thing in the world they
desired at such a price. They cursed the camp, the country, but more
than all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living.
Then came acknowledgment of defeat. One by one at first, and finally
in batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from the
attack. As they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust at
the frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloud
hanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. The
depressing shadow of Devil's Hill had for the moment become
intolerable.
Beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but he
would have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequent
appeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profit
to slake. His own feelings were at all times subservient to his
business instincts. This sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profit
to him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. It was almost as if
he feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune.
Then, too, Beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. His
trade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which he
reveled at all times. Problems of self-interest were his salt of life,
and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness as
well could be.
Curiously enough problems were always coming his way. He chanced upon
one that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention divided
between pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on the
back of his superheated neck. And it served him with food for thought
for the rest of the day.
It took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him ample
satisfaction. He was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when a
voice suddenly hailed him from the doorway.
"Are you the proprietor of the livery stables?"
He turned about with a start. Such a question in that camp seemed
superfluous. It was absurd. He looked up, and his astonished eyes fell
upon the vision of an extremely well-dressed, refined-looking woman
whom he judged to be anything over fifty. But what held his attention
most was the lean, emaciated face and penetrating eyes. There was
something of the witch about it, as there was about the bowed figure.
But more than all she was a _stranger_.
He admitted the impeachment in the midst of his astonishment with an
abruptness equal to her own.
"Sure," he said, and waited.
"Where will I find the sheriff of this place?"
Beasley's eyes opened wider.
"Guess ther' ain't no sheriff in this camp."
The woman's next words came impatiently.
"Why isn't there? Is there a lawyer?"
Beasley grinned. His astonishment was giving place to curiosity and
speculation. He tapped the revolver at his hip.
"We're mostly our own lawyers around here," he said easily.
But the woman ignored his levity.
"Where can I find one--a lawyer, or sheriff?" she demanded with an
added imperiousness.
"Guess Leeson Butte's nearest."
The stranger considered a moment. Beasley's eyes never left her. He
had noticed the refinement of her accent, and wondered the more.
"How can I get there--best?" the woman next demanded.
"Guess I ken let you have a team," Beasley said with alacrity. He
smelt good business.
"How much?"
"Fifty dollars. In an' out--with teamster."
"Does he know the way?"
"Sure."
The woman eyed him steadily.
"I don't want any mistakes. This--is a case of murder."
Beasley's interest suddenly redoubled. The problem was growing in its
attractiveness.
"Who's the feller?" he asked unguardedly.
"That's not your business." The woman's eyes were cold. "Send the team
over to the farm down the river in two hours' time. The horses must be
able to travel fast. Here's the money."
The saloon-keeper took the money promptly. But for once his
astonishment held him silent. Mercy Lascelles had reached the door to
go. Then she seemed to change her mind. She paused.
"There's fifty dollars more when I get back--if you keep your tongue
quiet," she said warningly. "I don't want my business to get around. I
should say gossip travels fast amongst the hills. That's what I don't
want."
"I see."
It was all the astonished man could think of to say at the moment. But
he managed an abundant wink in a markedly friendly way.
His wink missed fire, however, for the woman had departed; and by the
time he reached the door to look after her he saw her mounting the
wagon, which was drawn by the heavy team from Joan's farm, and driven
by her hired man.
As the stranger drove off he leant against the doorway and emitted a
low whistle. In his own phraseology he was "beat," completely and
utterly "beat."
But this state of things could not last long. His fertile brain could
not long remain under such a cloud of astonished confusion. He must
sort out the facts and piece them together. This he set to work on at
once.
Abandoning his work in the storeroom he went at once to the barn, and
gave orders for the dispatch of the team. And herein, for once, he
traded honestly with his visitor. He ordered his very best team to be
sent. Perhaps it was in acknowledgment of the problem she had offered
him.
Then he questioned his helpers. Here he was absolutely despotic. And
in less than half an hour he had ascertained several important facts.
He learned that a team had come in from Crowsfoot the previous
afternoon, bringing a passenger for the farm. The team had remained at
the farm, likewise the teamster. Only the fact that daylight that
morning had brought the man into camp for a supply of fodder and
provisions had supplied them with the news of his presence in the
district. This had happened before Beasley was up.
With this Beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was served
him in the bar. His bartender was taking an afternoon off. It was a
thoughtful meal. The man ate noisily with the aid of both knife and
fork. He had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixed
with. Nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables had
nearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain.
He remembered that Joan had refurnished the farm. Why? Because some
one from the East, no doubt, was coming to stay with her. Who? Mother?
Aunt? Cousin? Female anyway. Female arrives. Queer-looking female.
Goes to farm. Stays one night. Comes looking for sheriff next
morning. A case of murder. No murder been done around here. Where?
East? Yes. Then there's some one here she's found--or she knows is
here--and he's wanted for murder. Who?
At this point Beasley grinned. How many might there not be on Yellow
Creek who could be so charged?
But his shrewd mind was very quick. This woman had not been into camp
until she visited him. Where had she been? In the hills--coming from
Crowsfoot. Still she might have been aware of the presence of her man
before she came--through Joan.
For a moment he was disappointed.
But it was only for a moment. He quickly brightened up. A new idea had
occurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. This woman
was educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. She
would know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. It must be somebody
of the same class, or near it, somebody of education----He drew a
sharp breath, and his wicked eyes lit.
The wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. He
pondered long upon the passage of the trail from Crowsfoot to the
farm. He remembered how she did not desire the "gossip" to
travel--especially to the hills.
Suddenly he hailed his Chinese cook and flung his knife and fork down
upon his plate. In his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies.
He forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. He poured
himself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down,
smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customary
curse at the head of his Mongolian servitor.
He had never had such a morning in his life.
Two of the boys came in for a drink. Such was his mood that he upset
their whole focus of things by insisting that they have it at his
expense. And when a third came along with a small parcel of gold dust
he bought it at its full value.
These were significant signs. Beasley Melford was in a generous mood.
And such a mood in such a man required a lot of inspiration.
But it was not likely to continue for long. And surely enough it
quickly reached its limit, and resolved itself into his every-day
attitude, plus a desire to make up, at the first opportunity, the
losses incurred by his moments of weak generosity.
The heat of the day soon afforded him his desire, for the limp and
sweating miners straggled back into camp long before their usual
working day was ended. And what is more, they came to seek solace and
refreshment under his willing roof.
By the middle of the afternoon the bar was fairly well filled. The
place was little better than a furnace of humid heat. But under the
influence of heartening spirits the temperature passed almost
unnoticed, or at least uncared. Here at least the weary creatures were
called upon for no greater effort than to deal cards, or raise a glass
to their lips and hold it there until drained. They could stand any
heat in the pursuit of such pastimes.
Beasley watched his customers closely. Three tables of poker were
going, and from each he drew a percentage for the "chips" sold at the
bar. Each table was well supplied with drinks. A group of five men
occupied one end of the counter, and two smaller groups were farther
along. They were all drinking with sufficient regularity to suit his
purposes. Amongst the crowd gathered he noticed many of the men of the
original camp. There was Curly Saunders and Slaney at one poker table
with Diamond Jack. Abe Allinson was in close talk with two financial
"sharps" from Leeson, at the bar. The Kid was with a number of new
hands who had only just come in to try their luck. He was endeavoring
to sell a small share of his claim at a large price. Two others were
with the larger group at the bar, discussing "outputs" and new methods
of washing gold. It was a mixed collection of humanity, but there were
sufficient of the original members of the camp to suit him.
In a lull in the talk, when for a moment only the click of poker
"chips" and the shuffle of cards broke the silence, Beasley propped
himself against his counter and, for once, paused from his everlasting
habit of glass wiping.
"Guess none o' you heard the news?" he inquired, with a grin of
anticipation.
His first effort failed to produce the effect he desired, so a
repetition followed quickly. For a moment play was suspended at one of
the tables, and the men looked up.
"Noos?" inquired Diamond Jack.
The Kid and his youthful companions looked round at the foxy face of
their host.
"Oh! I don't guess it's nuthin'," said Beasley. "Only--it's so dogone
queer."
His manner was well calculated. His final remark drew the entire
barroom. All play and all talk was abruptly held up.
"Wot's queer?" demanded Diamond Jack, while all eyes searched the
saloon-keeper's sharp face.
Beasley bit the end off a green cigar.
"That's just it," he said. "Ther's suthin' I can't jest make out.
Say----" he paused while he lit his cigar with a sulphur match. "Any
you fellers heard of a murder around here lately? Can't say I have."
He puffed leisurely at his cigar. The scattered groups at the bar drew
closer. There was no question but he now had the attention he desired.
The blank negative on the faces about him gave him his answer.
"Sure," he observed thoughtfully. "That's wher' I'm beat. But--ther's
sure murder been done, an' ther's goin' to be a big doin' around--in
consequence. Ther's word gone in to the sheriff at Leeson, an' the law
fellers o' that city is raisin' a mighty business to get warrants
signed. Say, I heerd they're sendin' a dozen dep'ties to hunt these
hills. Seems to me the guy whoever it is is a pretty hot tough, an'
he's livin' in the hills. I heard more than that. I heard the murder
was a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they'd be right out
fer lynchin' this guy. That's why it's bin kep' quiet. I bin goin'
over the folks in my mind to locate the--murderer. But it's got me
beat."
"Ther' ain't bin no murder since the camp got boomin'," said Abe
Allinson thoughtfully, "'cept you reckon that racket of Ike an'
Pete's."
Beasley shook his head.
"'Tain't that. That was jest clear shootin'. Though it's queer you
mention that. Say, this racket's got somethin' to do with that farm.
It's mighty queer about that farm. That gal's brought a heap of
mischief. She sure is an all-fired Jonah."
"But what's she to do wi' this new racket?" inquired Slaney.
Beasley shook his head.
"You got me beat again. The sheriff's comin' right out to that farm,
chasin' some feller for murder. Ther's the fact--plain fact. He's
comin' to that farm--which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racket
someways. Now I tho't a heap on this thing. An' I'm guessin' this
murder must have been done back East. Y' see that gal comes from back
East. 'Wal, now,' says I, 'how do we shape then?' Why, that gal--that
Jonah gal--comes right here an' locates some feller who's done murder
back East. Who is it? I gone over every feller in this yer camp, an'
'most all are pretty clear accounted for. Then from what I hear the
sheriff's posse is to work the hills. Who is ther' in the hills?"
Beasley paused for effect. His purpose was rapidly becoming evident.
He glanced over the faces about him, and knew that the same thought
was in each mind.
He laughed as though an absurd thought had passed through his mind.
"Course," he exclaimed, "it's durned ridic'lous. Ther's two fellers we
know livin' in the hills. Jest two. Ther's Buck an'--the Padre. Buck's
bin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain't no use for
Buck. He's kind o' white livered, but he's a straight citizen. Then
the Padre," he laughed again, "he's too good. Say, he's next best to a
passon. So it can't be him."
He waited for concurrence, and it came at once.
"I'll swar' it ain't the Padre," cried Curly warmly.
"It sure ain't," agreed Slaney, shaking his serious head.
"The Padre?" cried Abe, with a scornful laugh. "Why, I'd sooner guess
it's me."
Beasley nodded.
"You're dead right ther', boys," he said, with hearty good-will. "It
sure ain't the Padre. He's got religion, an' though I'm 'most allus
curious 'bout folks with religion--it ain't right to say ther's any
queer reason fer 'em gettin' it. Then the Padre's bin here nigh twenty
years. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin' around these
hills fer twenty years! It's easy fer a feller raised to 'em, like
Buck. But when you've been a feller in a swell position East, to come
an' hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it's--it's
astonishin'. Still, that don't make no diff'rence. It can't be the
Padre. He's got his reasons fer stayin' around here. Wal, nigh all of
us has got reasons fer bein' here. An' it ain't fer us to ask why. No,
though I don't usually trust folks who get religion sudden, I ain't
goin' agin the Padre. He's a white man, sure."
"The whitest around here," cried Curly. He eyed Beasley steadily.
"Say, you," he went on suspiciously, "who give you all this?"
It was the question Beasley had been waiting for. But he would rather
have had it from some one else. He twisted his cigar across his lips
and spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth.
"Wal," he began deliberately, "I don't guess it's good med'cine
talkin' names. But I don't mind sayin' right here this thing's made me
feel mean. The story's come straight from that--that--Jonah gal's
farm. Yep, it makes me feel mean. Ther's nothin' but trouble about
that place now--'bout her. I ain't got over Ike and Pete. Wal, I don't
guess we'll get to the rights of that now. They wer' two bright boys.
Here are us fellers runnin' this camp fer all we know, all good
citizens, mind, an' ther' ain't nothin' amiss. We ke'p the place good
an' clean of rackets. We're goin' to boom into a big concern, an'
we're goin' to make our piles--clean. An' we got to put up with the
wust sort of mischief--from this farm. It ain't right. It ain't a
square shake by a sight. I sez when ther's Jonahs about they need to
be put right out. An' mark you, that gal, an' that farm are Jonahs.
Now we got this sheriff feller comin' around with his dep'ties chasin'
glory after a crook. He'll get his nose into everybody. An' sheriffs'
noses is quick at gettin' a nasty smell. I ain't sayin' a thing about
any citizen in this place--but I don't guess any of us has store halos
about us, an' halos is the only things'll keep any feller safe when
sheriffs get around."
A murmur of approval greeted his argument. Few of the men in the camp
desired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. There were few
enough among them who would care to have the ashes of their past
disturbed by any law officer. Beasley had struck the right note for
his purpose.
"How'd you put this Jonah out, Beasley?" cried Diamond Jack.
Beasley thought for a moment.
"How'd I put her out?" he said at last. "That's askin' some. How'd I
put her out? Say," his face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, "ef I had
my way I'd burn every stick o' that dogone farm. Then she'd light out.
That's what I'd do. I ain't got no use for Jonahs. An' I say right
here I'd give five hundred dollars to see her back turned on this
place. I tell you, boys, an' I'm speakin' for your good, an' mine, if
she stops around here we're goin' to get it--we'll get it good. The
Lord knows how it's goin' to come. But it's comin', I feel it in my
bones. It's comin' as sure as my name's Beasley."
He threw such a sincerity and earnestness into his manner that he made
a marked impression. Even Curly Saunders, who, with one or two of the
older hands, had some sort of regard for the girl they believed had
founded their fortunes, was not quite without doubts. There was no
question but mischief did seem to hang about the farm. Ike and Pete
had been popular enough. The newer people had no sentiment on the
matter, but they listened with interest to the saloon-keeper, feeling
that his was the voice of the leading citizen. Besides, the matter of
the sheriff's coming was not pleasant. Many had spent a great part of
their lives avoiding such contact.
"Seems to me you're forgettin' that gal brought us our luck," the Kid
suggested impulsively. "You were ther' when we handed her the----"
"Death's-head," laughed Beasley. Then his face hardened. "Tcha!" he
cried with some heat. "You make me sick. I told you then, as I tell
you now, it was that storm brought us our luck, an' it brought us our
Jonah with it. If you'd got a cent's worth of grit that gal 'ud go. We
don't wish her harm. I ain't one to wish a gal harm. But go she must
if we want to be quit of trouble. Still, I'm on'y just sayin' what I
feel. It don't matter a heap. Ther's the sheriff comin' along to grab
some one for murder. Maybe he'll chase up a few other rackets to fill
in his time. It's things of that nature do matter. He's got to git
some one. Maybe it's some one in the hills. Maybe it ain't.
Maybe--wal, I sure do hope it ain't--the Padre."
He laughed as he turned to attend the wants of some fresh customers
who entered the bar at that moment. The malice underlying his jest
must have been plain to any one observing the man.
With this fresh diversion play at the card tables was resumed while
the men at the bar fell back into their original groups. But the
general interest was absorbed in Beasley's news, and the channels of
talk were diverted. Beasley had sown his seed on fruitful soil. He
knew it. The coming of a sheriff, or any form of established law, into
a new mining camp was not lightly to be welcomed by the earliest
pioneers.
In the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. The last
person Beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day was
Buck. He was not even sure he wanted to see him after what had passed.
Yet Buck suddenly pushed his way through the swing-doors.
The saloon-keeper was in the act of replacing the whisky bottle under
the counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxy
eyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on Yellow
Creek.
In a moment he was all smiles.
"Howdy, Buck," he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thing
in the world he desired. Then he covertly winked at those nearest him.
His wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed the
newcomer curiously.
Buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded to
business. He had not come for the pleasure of the visit. He passed a
slip of paper across the counter.
"Can you do them for me?" he inquired. "Just cast an eye over that
list. If you'll get 'em put up I'll ride in in the mornin' an' fetch
'em out. I'll need 'em early."
His manner was short and cold. It was his way with Beasley, but now
there was more in his mind to make for brevity.
Beasley studied the paper closely. And as he read down the list a
smile spread over his mean face. It was a long list of supplies which
included rifle and revolver ammunition. He whistled softly.
"Mackinaw!" Then he looked up into the dark eyes of the waiting man,
and his own expressed an unwonted good-humor. "Say, wot's doin' at the
fort? Gettin' ready for a siege? Or--or are you an' the Padre chasin'
the long trail?"
Buck's thin cheeks flushed as he pointed at the paper.
"You can do that for me?" he inquired still more coldly.
Beasley shot a swift glance round at the interested faces of the men
standing by.
"Oh, guess I can do it," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Sure I can do
it. Say, you fellers ain't lightin' out?"
He winked again. This time it was deliberately at Buck.
"They're winter stores," said Buck shortly.
Then, as Beasley laughed right out, and he became aware of a general
smile at his expense, he grew hot.
"What's the matter?" he demanded sharply. And his demand was not
intended for the saloon-keeper alone.
"Ke'p your shirt on, Buck," exclaimed Beasley, with studied
good-nature. "We couldn't jest help but laff." Then his eyes became
sentimentally serious. "Y' see, we bin worried some. We wus guessin'
when you came along. Y' see, ther's a sheriff an' a big posse o'
dep'ties comin' right along to this yer camp. Y' see, ther's some guy
chasin' around the hills, an' he's wanted fer--murder."
The man was watching for an effect in Buck's face. But he might as
well have looked for expression in that of a sphinx.
"Wal?"
It was the only response Buck afforded him.
"Wal," Beasley shifted his gaze. He laughed feebly, and the onlookers
transferred their attention to him. "Y' see, it was sort o' laffable
you comin' along buyin' winter stores in August, an' us jest guessin'
what guy the sheriff would be chasin'--in the hills. He won't be
smellin' around the fort now?" He grinned amiably into the dark face.
But deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which Buck promptly read.
Nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. He returned the
man's look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knew
beyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced her
campaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into the
camp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. At
least it was reaching him now.
"You best hand it me straight, Beasley," he said. "Guess nothin'
straight is a heap in your line. But jest for once you've got no
corners to crawl around. Hand it out--an' quick."
Buck's manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering fire
growing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitation
was only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one last
effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired,
which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped
to keep the company present on his side.
"Ther's no offense, Buck," he said. "At least ther' sure needn't to
be. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin' you a laff--same as
we had."
"I'm waitin'," said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the
explanation.
But Beasley's hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, his
last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was a
lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was the
result of what had occurred before Buck's coming. They expected him to
talk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venom
which he could never long restrain.
"Guess I hadn't best ke'p you waitin', sure," he said ironically. Then
his eyes suddenly lit. "Winter stores, eh?" he cried derisively.
"Winter stores--an' why'll the Padre need 'em, the good kind Padre,
when the sheriff's comin' along to round him up fer--murder?"
There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge
across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each
other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The
lightning-like play of life and death.
But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For once
Buck's heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley down
where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but
he restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forced
himself to calmness.
Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home
unfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in
it. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no
weakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and his
conviction received further assurance as he watched Buck's face.
For an instant Buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth.
But to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie
to be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter the
mischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper's
face.
"The truth don't come easy to you, Beasley," he said calmly, "unless
it's got a nasty flavor. Guess that's how it's come your way to tell
it now."
"Winter stores," laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed his
hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the
men looking on.
Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had
been absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became the
perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost
deceived Buck himself.
"See here, Buck," he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. "You an' me
don't always see things the same way. Guess I don't allus hit it with
the Padre. No, I guess ther' ain't a heap of good feeling among the
three of us. But before you leave here I want to say jest one thing,
an' it's this. Sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if
they're lookin' fer the Padre for murder I say it's a jumped-up fake.
That man couldn't do a murder, not to save his soul. An' it'll give me
a whole heap o' pleasure fixin' up your winter stores. An' good luck
to you both--when you hit the long trail."
A murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the company
who remembered the days before the gold strike. And Beasley, in his
long career of mischief, almost achieved popularity.
Buck could scarcely believe his ears. And his incredulity was not
lessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who had
expressed himself so cordially.
But he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner or
later. He knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by the
Padre in emergency, and they must know the truth. Since Aunt Mercy's
campaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these men
must be told the facts, and know his own attitude. He might well need
their assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed the
Padre's.
"I take it you mean that, Beasley," he said without warmth. Then,
ignoring the man, he turned to those gathered about him. "I don't know
how Beasley's got this thing, fellers," he said, in his simple
fashion. "It don't matter, anyway. I hadn't a notion the sheriff was
comin' along yet, either. That don't matter. Anyways I guessed he
would be comin' sooner or later, an' that's the reason I'm layin' in
stores of gun stuff an' things. Yes, he's comin' for the Padre on a
charge of murder, a low-down charge of murder that he never committed.
You know the ways of the law, an' how things sure go in such rackets.
The charge is nigh twenty years old. Wal, maybe it'll be nigh
impossible for him to prove he didn't do it. It looks that way.
Anyways, I tell you right here, ther' ain't no sheriff in this country
goin' to git him while I'm alive. He's raised me from a starvin' kid,
an' he's bin the biggest thing on earth to me, an' I'm goin' to see
him through. You fellers, some o' you, know the Padre. You know what
he's done right here to help folks when they were starvin'. He even
sold his farm to help. Sold it right out, an' give up twenty years'
work to hand grub to empty bellies. Wal, they want him fer murder.
Him, the best and straightest man I ever knew. I ain't got nothin'
more to say 'cept Beasley's right--the sheriff's comin'. An' when he
comes he'll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an' I'll have a
hand in makin' 'em that way." He turned abruptly to Beasley, and
pointed at the paper lying on the counter. "You'll do them things for
me, an' I'll get 'em to-morrow."
He turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as he
reached the door.
"So long, fellers," he cried, and pushed his way out.
The moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. The gamblers cashed
their "chips" at the bar. There was no more play that afternoon.
Excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. To a man those
who knew the Padre, and those who didn't, commended Buck's attitude.
And amongst the older hands of the camp was an ardent desire to take a
hand in resisting the law. Beasley was in agreement with nearly
everybody. He expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity and
injustice, as he described it, of the charge. And, finally, he
possessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his own
subtle scheming.
"What did I tell you, fellers?" he cried, when he had obtained a
general hearing. "What did I tell you?" he reiterated in a fine fury.
"I don't like him, but Buck's a man. A straight, bully feller. He's
goin' to do the right thing. He'll stand by that Padre feller while
he's got a breath in his body, an' he'll shoot the sheriff up as sure
as sure. An' why? Because that feller, the Padre, sold his farm to
help us old hands. Because he sold his farm to that 'Jonah' gal, who's
brought all this trouble about. If she hadn't come around Pete an' Ike
would have bin living now. If she hadn't come around the Padre
wouldn't be wanted for a murder he never committed. If she hadn't come
around Buck wouldn't have set himself up agin the law, an' found
himself chasin' the country over--an outlaw. D'yer see it? You're
blind if you don't." He brought his clenched fist down on the counter
in a whirlwind of indignation. "She's got to go," he cried. "I tell
you, she's got to go. Chase her out. Burn her out. Get rid of her from
here. An' I got five hundred dollars says--do it."
Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with him
now. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shouted
his sudden sympathy.
"Beasley's right, boys," he cried. "She's brought the rotten luck. She
must go. Who's to say whose turn it'll be next?"
"Bully for you," cried Beasley. "Curly's hit it. Who's the next victim
of the rotten luck of this Golden Woman?"
His final appeal carried the day. The men shouted a general approval,
and Beasley reveled inwardly in his triumph. He had played his hand
with all the skill at his command--and won. And now he was satisfied.
He knew he had started the ball rolling. It would grow. In a few hours
the majority of the camp would be with him. Then, when the time came,
he would play them for his own ends, and so pay off all his old
scores.
The Padre would be taken. He would see to that. The sheriff should
know every detail of Buck's intentions. Buck would ultimately be
taken--after being outlawed. And Joan--the proud beauty whom Buck was
in love with--well, if she got out with her life it would be about all
she would escape with.
Beasley felt very happy.