CHAPTER XVII
THE SECRET OF THE LOST MINE
Through most of the day Dave and Solange pushed on up the canyon andthe snow fell steadily, deepening under foot. As yet there were nodrifts, for the wind was not blowing and progress was easy enough.After a few hours the snow grew deep enough to ball up under the feetof the horses and to cause some inconvenience from slipping. More thanonce Solange was in danger of being thrown by the plunge of her horseas his feet slid from under him. This served to retard their progressconsiderably but was not of much consequence aside from that and theslight element of added danger.
They had no more than fifteen miles to go before reaching therendezvous, and this they made shortly after noon. Dave, who hadbecome more silent than ever when he found himself alone with thegirl, pitched the tent and then went to gather a supply of wood.Unused to strenuous riding, Solange went into her tent and lay down torest.
They had expected to find De Launay, but there was no sign of him.Dave said that he might be within a short distance and they not knowit, and asserted his intention of scouting around to find him afterhe had got the wood.
Solange was asleep when he came back with a load snaked in with hislariat, and he did not disturb her. Leaving the wood he rode on up thecanyon looking for signs of De Launay. But, although he spent thebetter part of the afternoon in the search, riding in and out of everybranch gully, and quartering up the slopes to where the black standsof timber began, he found no trace of the man.
Finally, fearing that Solange would begin to be frightened at hisabsence, he turned and started back to the camp. He had marked it by alarge outcrop that stuck out of the canyon wall, forming a flat oblongbench of rock. This had hung on the slope about a hundred feet abovethe floor of the valley, and so he made his way along at about thatheight. It was beginning to get dark, the snow was falling heavily andhe found it difficult to see far in front of him.
"High time old Sucatash was fannin' in fer dogs," he said to himself."The winter's done set in for sure."
Fearing that he would miss the camp by keeping so high he headed hishorse downward and finally reached the bottom of the canyon. Here thesnow was deeper but the going was better. He turned downward with somerelief, and was just about to spur his horse to greater speed when,through the gray mist of snow, a shadowy figure loomed up beforehim.
"Hey, De Launay?" he called. The figure did not answer but movedtoward him.
He reined in his horse and leaned outward to look more intently.Behind the man, who was mounted, he saw the blurred outlines of packanimals. "De Launay?" he called again.
The figure seemed to grow suddenly nearer and more distinct,descending close upon him.
"It ain't no Delonny," chuckled a shrill voice. "It's me."
"Huh!" said Dave, with disgust. "Jim Banker, the damned old desertrat!"
"Reckon you ain't so glad to see me," wheezed Jim, still chuckling."Old Jim's always around, though; always around when there's goldhuntin' to do. Always around, old Jim is!"
"Well, mosey on and pull your freight," snarled Dave. "We don't wantyou too close around. It's a free country, but keep to windward andout o' sight."
"You don't like old Jim! Hee, hee! Don't none of 'em like old Jim! ButJim's here, a-huntin'--and most of them's dead that don't like him.Old Jim don't die! The other fellers dies!"
"So I hears," said Dave, with meaning. He said no more, for Banker,without the slightest warning, shot him through the head.
The horses plunged as the body dropped to the ground and Jim wheezedand cackled as he held his own beast down.
"Hee, hee! They all of 'em dies, but old Jim don't die!"
With a snort Dave's horse wheeled and galloped away up the canyon. Thesound of his going frightened the prospector. He ceased to laugh, andcowered in his saddle, looking fearfully about him into the dim swirlof the snow.
"Who's that?" he called.
The deadly silence was unbroken. The old man shook his fist in the airand again broke into his frightful cursing.
"I ain't afraid!" he yelled. "Damn you. I ain't afraid! You're alldead. You're dead, there; French Pete's dead, Sucatash Wallace's dead,Panamint's dead. But old Jim's alive! Old Jim'll find it. You bet youhe will!"
He bent his head and appeared to listen again. Then:
"What's that? Who's singin'?"
He fell to muttering again, quoting doggerel, whined out in anapproach to a tune: "Louisiana--Louisiana Lou!"
"Louisiana's dead!" he chuckled. "If he aint he better not come back.The gal's a-waitin' fer him. Louisiana what killed her pappy! Ha, ha!Louisiana killed French Pete!"
He turned his horse and slowly, still muttering, began to haze hisburros back down the canyon.
"Old Jim's smart," he declaimed. "All same like an Injun, old Jim is!Come a-sneakin' up past the camp there and the gal never knew I wasnigh. Went a-sneakin' past and seen his tracks goin' up the canyon.Just creeps along and rides up on him and now he's dead! All dead butthe gal and old Jim! Old Jim don't die. The gal'll die, but not oldJim! She'll tell old Jim what she knows and then old Jim will find thegold."
Through the muffling snow he pushed on until the faint glow of a firecame to him through the mist of snowflakes. A shadow flitted in frontof it, and he stopped to chuckle evilly and mutter. Then he dismountedand walked up to the camp, where Solange busied herself in preparingsupper.
"That you, Monsieur David?" she called cheerily, as Jim's bootscrunched the snow.
Jim chuckled. "It's just me--old Jim, ma'am," he said, his voice oilyand ingratiating. "Old Jim, come to see the gal of his old friend,Pete."
Solange whirled. But Jim had sidled between her and the tent, where,just inside the flap, rested the rifle that Sucatash had left her.
"What do you wish?" she asked, angrily. Her head was reared, and inthe dim light her eyes glowed as they caught reflections from thefire. She showed no fear.
"Just wants to talk to you about old times," whined Banker. "Old Jimwants to talk to Pete's gal, ma'am."
"I heard a shot a while ago," said Solange sharply. "Where is MonsieurDave?"
"I don't know nothin' about Dave, ma'am. Reckon he'll be back. Boyslike him don't leave purty gals alone long--less'n he's got keerlessand gone an' hurt hisself. Boys is keerless that a way and they don'tknow the mount'ins like old Jim does. They goes and dies in 'em,ma'am--but old Jim don't die. He knows the mount'ins, he does! He,he!"
Solange took a step toward him. "What do you wish?" she repeated,sternly. Still, she did not fear him.
"Just to talk, ma'am. Just to talk about French Pete. Just to talkabout gold. Old Jim's been a-huntin' gold a many years, ma'am. AndPete, he found gold and I reckon he told his gal where the gold was.He writ a paper before he died, they say, and I reckon he writ on thatpaper where the gold was, didn't he?"
"No, he did not," said the girl, shortly and contemptuously.
"So you'd say; so you'd say, of course." He chuckled again. "Therewasn't no one could read that Basco writin'. But he done writ it. Now,you tell old Jim what that writin' says, and then you and old Jim willfind that gold."
Solange suddenly laughed, bitterly. "Tell you? Why yes, I'll tell you.It said----"
"Yes, ma'am! It said----"
He was slaveringly eager as he stepped toward her.
"It said--to my mother--that she should seek out the man who killedhim and take vengeance on him!"
Jim reeled back, cringing and mouthing. "Said--said what? You'relyin'. It didn't say it!"
"I have told you what it said. Now, stand aside and let me get into mytent!"
With supreme contempt, she walked up to him as though she would pushhim aside. It was a fatal mistake, though she nearly succeeded. Thegibbering, cracked old fiend shrank, peering fearfully, away from herblazing eyes and the black halo, rimmed with flashing color, of herhair. For a moment it seemed that he would yield in terror and giveher passage.
But terror gave place suddenly to crazy rage. With an outburst ofbloodcurdlin
g curses, he flung himself upon her. She thought to avoidhim, but he was as quick as a cat and as wiry and strong as a terrier.Before she could leap aside, his claw-like hands were tangled in hercoat and he was dragging her to him. She fought.
She struck him, kicked and twisted with all her splendid, lithestrength, but it was in vain. He clung like a leech, dragging hercloser in spite of all she could do. She beat at his snarling faceand the mouth out of which were whining things she fortunately did notunderstand. His yellow fangs were bare and saliva dripped from them.
Disgust and horror was overwhelming her. His iron arms were bendingher backward. She tried again to tear free, stepped back, stumbled,went down with a crash. He sprang upon her, grunting and whistling,seized her hair and lifted her head, to send it crashing against theground.
The world went black as she lost consciousness.
The prospector got to his feet, grumbling and cursing. He did not seemto feel the bruises left on his face by her competent hands. Hestooped over her, felt her breast and found her heart beating.
"She ain't goin' to die. She ain't goin' to die yet. She'll tell oldJim what's writ on that paper. She'll tell him where the gold is."
He left her lying there while he went to get his outfit. The packswere dragged off and flung to the ground, where saddle and riflefollowed them. Then he went into the tent.
He pitched the rifle left by Sucatash out into the snow, kicked thegirl's saddle aside, dumped her bedding and her clothes on the floor,tore and fumbled among things that his foul hands should never havetouched nor his evil eyes have seen. He made a fearful wreck of theplace and, finally, came upon her hand bag, which, womanlike, she hadclung to persistently, carrying it in her saddle pockets when sherode.
The small samples of ore he gloated over lovingly, mouthing andgibbering. But finally he abandoned them, reluctantly, and dug out thetwo notes.
Brandon's letter he read hastily, chuckling over it as though itcontained many a joke. But he was more interested in the other scrawl,whose strange words completely baffled him. He tried in vain to makeout its meaning, turning it about, peering at it from all angles, likean evil old buzzard. Then he gave way to a fit of rage, whining cursesand making to tear the thing into bits. But his sanity heldsufficiently to prevent that.
Finally he folded the paper up and tucked it into a pocket. Then hegathered up the bedding, took it outside and roughly bundled the girlin it. She lay unconscious and dreadfully white, with the snow siftingsteadily over her. Her condition had no effect on the old ruffian whocallously let her lie, covering her only to prevent her freezing todeath before he could extract the information he desired.
He finished her culinary tasks and glutted himself on the food,grunting and tearing at it like a wild animal. Then he dragged out hisfilthy bedding and rolled himself up in it, scorning the shelter ofthe tent, which stood wanly in the white, misty night.
It was morning when Solange recovered her senses. She awoke to a gray,chill world in which she alternately shivered and burned as feverclutched her. For many minutes she lay, swathed in blankets, dull tosensation, staring up at a leaden sky. The snow had ceased to fall.
Still unable to comprehend where she was or what had happened, shemade a tentative attempt to move, only to wince as the pains, borne ofher struggle and of lying on the bare ground, seized her. Stiff andsore, weakened, with head throbbing and stabbing, the whole horribleadventure came back to her. She tried to rise, but she was totallyhelpless and her least movement gave her excruciating pain. Her headcovering had been laid aside before she had begun preparation ofsupper the night before, and her colorless and strangely brillianthair, all tumbled and loose, lay around her head and over hershoulders in great waves and billows, tinged with blue and red lightsagainst the snow. Her face, delicately flushed with fever, was wildlybeautiful, and her eyes were burning with somber, terrible light deepin their depths.
It was this face that Jim Banker looked down upon as he came back fromthe creek, unkempt, dirty. It was these eyes he met as he stooped overher with his lunatic chuckle.
He winced backward as though she had struck him, and his facecontorted with sudden panic. He cowered away from her and covered hisown eyes.
"Don't you look at me like that! I never done nothing!" he whined.
"Canaille!" said Solange. Her voice was a mere whisper but it fairlysinged with scorn. Fearless, she stared at him and he could not meether gaze.
His gusty mood changed and he began to curse her. She heard morefoulness from him in the next five minutes than all the delirium ofwounded soldiers during five years of war had produced for her. Shesaw a soul laid bare before her in all its unutterable vileness. Yetshe did not flinch, nor did a single symptom of panic or fear crossher face.
Once, for a second, he ceased his mouthing, abruptly. His head went upand he bent an ear to the wind as though listening to somethinginfinitely far away.
"Singin'!" he muttered, as though in awe. "Hear that! 'Louisiana!Louisiana Lou!'"
Then he cackled. "Louisiana singin'. I hear him. Louisiana--who killedFrench Pete. He, he!"
After a while he tired, subsiding into mutterings. He got breakfast,bringing to her some of the mess he cooked. She ate it, though itnauseated her, determining that she would endeavor to keep herstrength for future struggles.
While she choked down the food the prospector sat near her, but notlooking at her, and talked.
"You an' me'll talk pretty, honey. Old Jim ain't goin' to hurt you ifyou're reasonable. Just tell old Jim what the writin' says and oldJim'll be right nice to you. We'll go an' find the gold, you and me.You'll tell old Jim, won't you?"
His horrible pleading fell on stony ears, and he changed his tune.
"You ain't a-goin' tell old Jim? Well, that's too bad. Old Jim hatesto do it, pretty, but old Jim's got to know. If you won't tell him,he'll have to find out anyhow. Know how he'll do it?"
She remained silent.
"It's a trick the Injuns done taught old Jim. They uses it to makepeople holler when they don't want to. They takes a little sliver ofpine, jest a little tiny sliver, ma'am, and they sticks it in underthe toe nails where it hurts. Then they lights it. They sticks more of'em under the finger nails and through the skin here an' there. Thenthey lights 'em.
"Most generally it makes the fellers holler--and I reckon it'll makeyou tell, ma'am. Old Jim has to know. You better tell old Jim."
She remained stubbornly and scornfully silent.
The prospector shook his head as though sorrowful over herpertinacity. Then he got up and got a piece of wood, a stick of pitchpine, which he began to whittle carefully into fine slivers. These hecollected carefully into a bundle while the helpless girl watchedhim.
Finally he came to her and pulled the blankets from her. He stoopedand unlaced her boots, pulling them off. One woolen stocking wasjerked roughly from a foot as delicate as a babe's. She tried to kick,feebly and ineffectively. Her feet, half frozen from sleeping in theboots, were like lead.
The prospector laughed and seized her foot. But, as he held it andpicked up a sliver, a thought occurred to him. He got up and went tothe fire, where he stooped to get a flaming brand.
At this moment, clear and joyous, although distant and faint, came arollicking measure of song:
"My Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!"
The girl's brain failed to react to it. She gathered nothing from thesound except that there was some one coming. But Banker reared asthough shot and whirled about to stare down the canyon. She could notsee him and she was unable to turn.
Shaking as though stricken with an ague, the prospector stood. Hisface had gone chalk white under its dirty stubble of beard. He lookedsick and even more unwholesome than usual. From his slack jaws poureda constant whining of words, unintelligible.
Down the canyon, slouching carelessly with the motion of his horse,appeared a man, riding toward them at a jog trot. Behind him jingledtwo pack horses, the first of which was half buried under the hig
hbundle on his back, the second more lightly laden.
Banker stood, incapable of motion for a moment. Then, as thoughgalvanized into action, he began to gabble his inevitable oaths, whilehe leaped hurriedly for his rifle. He grabbed it from under thetarpaulin, jerked the lever, flung it to his shoulder and fired.
With the shot, Solange, by a terrific effort, rolled over and raisedher head. She caught a glimpse of a familiar figure and shrieked outwith new-found strength.
"_Mon ami! A moi, mon ami!_"
Then she stifled a groan, for, with the shot, the figure saggedsuddenly and dropped to the side of his horse, evidently hit. Sheheard the insane yell of triumph from the prospector and knew that hewas dancing up and down and shouting:
"They all dies but old Jim! Old Jim don't die!"
She buried her face in her hands, wondering, even then, why she feltsuch a terrible pang, not of hope destroyed, but because the man haddied.
It passed like a flash for, on the instant, she heard another yellfrom Banker, and a yell, this time, of terror. At the same moment shewas aware of thundering hoofs bearing down upon them and of a voicethat shouted; a voice which was the sweetest music she had everheard.
Dimly she was aware that Banker had dropped his rifle and scuttledlike a scared rabbit into some place of shelter. Her whole attentionwas concentrated on those rattling, drumming hoofs. She looked up,tried to rise, but fell back with the pain of the effort stabbing herunheeded.
A horse was sliding to a stop, forefeet planted, snow and dirt flyingfrom his hoofs. De Launay was leaping to the ground and the packhorses were galloping clumsily up. Then his arms were around her andshe was lifted from the ground.
"What's the matter, Solange? What's happened? Where's the boys? AndBanker, what's he doing shooting at me?"
His questions were pouring out upon her, but she could not answerthem. She clung to him and sobbed.
"I thought he had killed you!"
His laugh was music.
"That old natural? He couldn't kill me. Saw him aim and ducked. Shotright over me. But what's happened to you?"
He ran a hand over her face and found it hot with fever.
"Why, you're sick! And your foot's bare. Here, tell me what hashappened?"
She could only sob brokenly, her strength almost gone.
"That terrible old man! He did it. He's hiding--to shoot you."
De Launay's hand had run over her thick mane of hair and he felt herwince. He recognized the great bump on the skull.
"Death of a dog!" he swore in French. "_Mon amie_, is it this olddevil who has injured you?"
She nodded and he began to look about him for Banker. But theprospector was not in sight, although his discarded rifle was on theground. The lever was down where the prospector had jerked itpreparatory to a second shot which he had been afraid to fire. Theempty ejected shell lay on the snow near by.
De Launay turned back to Solange. He bent over her and carefullyrestored her stocking and shoe. Then he fetched water and bathed herhead, gently gathering her hair together and binding it up under thebandeau which he found among her scattered belongings. She told himsomething of what had happened, ascribing the prospector's actions toinsanity. But when De Launay asked about Sucatash and Dave she coulddo no more than tell him that the first had gone to the ranch to getsnowshoes and dogs, and the latter had gone out yesterday and had notcome back, though she had heard a single shot late in the afternoon.
De Launay listened with a frown. He was in a cold rage at Banker, butthere were other things to do than try to find him. He set to work togather up the wreckage of the tent and outfit. Then he rounded up thehorses, leaving the burros and Banker's horse to stay where theywere. Hastily he threw on the packs, making no pretense at neatpacking.
"I'll have to get you out of this," he said. "With that lunaticbushwacking round there'll never be a moment of safety for you. You'resick and will have to have care. Can you ride?"
Solange tried to rise to her feet but was unable to stand.
"I'll have to carry you. I'll saddle your horse and lead him. Theothers will follow my animals. I'll get you to safety and then comeback and look for Dave."
With infinite care he lifted her to his saddle, holding her while hemounted and gathered her limp form into his left arm. His horsefortunately was gentle, and stood. He was about to reach for the reinsof her horse when something made her turn and look up the slope of thehill toward the overhanging, ledgelike rock above the camp.
"_Mon ami!_" she screamed. "_Gardez-vous!_"
What happened she was not able to exactly understand. Only she somehowrealized that never had she understood the possibility of rapid motionbefore. Her own eyes had caught only a momentary glimpse of a headabove the edge of the rock and the black muzzle of a six-shootercreeping into line with them.
Yet De Launay's movement was sure and accurate. His eyes seemed tosense direction, his hand made one sweep from holster to an arc acrossher body and the roar of the heavy weapon shattered her ears beforeshe had fairly realized that she had cried out. She saw a spurt ofdust where the head had appeared.
Then De Launay's spurs went home and the horse leaped into a run. Thepack horses, jumping at the sound of the shot, flung up their heels,lurched to one side, circled and fell into a gallop in the rear.Clattering and creaking, the whole cavalcade went thundering up thevalley.
De Launay swore. "Missed, by all the devils! But I sure put dust inhis eyes!"
He turned around and there, sure enough, was Banker, standing on therock, pawing at his eyes. The shot had struck the edge of the rockjust below his face and spattered fragments all over him.
De Launay laughed grimly as the groping figure shook a futile fist athim. Then Banker sat down and dug at his face industriously.
They had ridden another hundred yards when a yell echoed in the canyon.He turned again and saw Banker leaping and shrieking on the rock,waving hands to the heavens and carrying on like a maniac.
"Gone plumb loco," said De Launay, contemptuously.
But, unknown to De Launay or mademoiselle, the high gods must havelaughed in irony as old Jim Banker raved and flung his hands towardtheir Olympian fastness.
De Launay's shot, which had crushed the edge of the rock to powder,had exposed to the prospector the glittering gold of French Pete'slost Bonanza!
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