CHAPTER XVI
GOLD AND ALLOY
The seedling of success planted in rank soil generally develops awild, pernicious growth which, until the summer of its life haspassed, is untameable and pollutes all that with which it comes intocontact. The husbandman may pluck at its roots, but the seed is flungbroadcast, and he finds himself wringing his hands helplessly in thewilderness.
So it was on the banks of Yellow Creek. The seedling was alreadyflinging its tendrils and fastening tightly upon the life of thelittle camp. The change had come within three weeks of the moment whenthe Padre had gazed upon that first wonderful find of gold. So rapidwas its development that it was almost staggering to the man who stoodby watching the result of the news he had first carried to the camp.
The Padre wandered the hills with trap and gun. Nothing could win himfrom the pursuit which was his. But his eyes were wide open to thosethings which had somehow become the care of his leisure. Many of hisevenings were spent in the camp, and there he saw and heard the thingswhich, in his working moments, gave him food for a disquietude ofthought.
He knew that the luck that had come to the camp was no ordinary luck.His first find had suggested something phenomenal, but it was nothingto the reality. A wealth almost incalculable had been yielded by aprodigal Nature. Every claim into which he, with the assistance of themen of the camp, had divided the find, measured carefully and ballotedfor, was rich beyond all dreams. Two or three were richer than theothers, but this was the luck of the ballot, and the natural envyinspired thereby was of a comparatively harmless character.
At first the thought of these things was one of a pleasantsatisfaction. These men had waited, and suffered, and starved fortheir chance, and he was glad their chance had come. How many hadwaited, and suffered and starved, as they had done, and done all thosethings in vain? Yes, it was a pleasant thought, and it gave him zestand hope in his own life.
The first days passed in a perfect whirlwind of joy. Where before hadsounded only the moanings of despair, now the banks of Yellow Creekrang with laughter and joyous voices, bragging, hoping, jesting. Oneand all saw their long-dimmed hopes looming bright in the prospect offulfilment.
Then came a change. Just at first it was hardly noticeable. But itswiftly developed, and the shrewd mind of the watcher in the hillsrealized that the days of halcyon were passing all too swiftly. Menwere no longer satisfied with hopes. They wanted realities.
To want the realities with their simple, unrestrained passions, andthe means of obtaining them at their disposal, was to demand them. Todemand them was to have them. They wanted a saloon. They wanted anorganized means of gambling, they wanted a town, with all its means ofsatisfying appetites that had all too long hungered for what theyregarded as the necessary pleasures of life. They wanted a means ofspending the accumulations gleaned from the ample purse of motherNature. And, in a moment, they set about the work of possessing thesethings.
As is always the case the means was not far to seek. It needed but onemind, keener in self-interest than the rest, and that mind was tohand. Beasley Melford, at no time a man who cared for the physicalhardships of the life of these people, saw his opportunity andsnatched it. He saw in it a far greater gold-mine than his own claimcould ever yield him, and he promptly laid his plans.
He set to work without any noise, any fuss. He was too foxy to shoutuntil his purpose was beyond all possibility of failure. He simplydisappeared from the camp for a week. His absence was noted, but noone cared. They were too full of their own affairs. The only peoplewho thought on the matter were the Padre and Buck. Nor did they speakof it until he had been missing four days. Then it was, one evening asthey were returning from their traps, the Padre gave some inkling ofwhat had been busy in his thoughts all day.
"It's queer about Beasley," he said, pausing to look back over a greatvalley out of which they had just climbed, and beyond which thewestering sun was shining upon the distant snow-fields.
Buck turned sharply at the sound of his companion's voice. They werenot given to talking much out on these hills.
"He's been away nigh four days," he said, and took the opportunity ofshifting his burden of six freshly-taken fox pelts and lighting hispipe.
The Padre nodded.
"I think he'll be back soon," he said. Then he added slowly: "It seemsa pity."
"His coming back?" Buck eyed his companion quickly.
"Yes."
"Wher' d'you reckon he's gone?"
The elder man raised a pair of astonished brows.
"Why, to Leeson Butte," he said decidedly. Then he went on quietly,but with neither doubt nor hesitation: "There's a real big changecoming here--when Beasley gets back. These men want drink, they aregetting restless for high play. They are hankering for--for theflesh-pots they think their gold entitles them to. Beasley will givethem all those things when he comes back. It's a pity."
Buck thought for some moments before he answered. He was viewing theprospect from the standpoint of his years.
"They must sure have had 'em anyway," he said at last.
"Ye--es."
The Padre understood what was in the other's mind.
"You see," he went on presently, "I wasn't thinking of that so much.It's--well, it amounts to this. These poor devils are just working tofill Beasley's pockets. Beasley's the man who'll benefit by this'strike.' In a few months the others will be on the road again, goingthrough all--that they've gone through before."
"I guess they will," Buck agreed. His point of view had changed. Hewas seeing through the older eyes. After that they moved on towardtheir home lost in the thoughts which their brief talk had inspired.
In a few days the Padre's prophecy was fulfilled. Beasley returnedfrom Leeson Butte at the head of a small convoy. He had contrived hisnegotiations with a wonderful skill and foresight. His whole objecthad been secrecy, and this had been difficult. To shout the wealth ofthe camp in Leeson Butte would have been to bring instantly anavalanche of adventurers and speculators to the banks of Yellow Creek.His capital was limited to the small amount he had secretly hoardedwhile his comrades were starving, and the gold he had taken from hisclaim. The latter was his chief asset not from its amount, but itsnature. Therefore he had been forced to take the leading merchant inthe little prairie city into his confidence, and to suggest apartnership. This he had done, and a plausible tongue, and the sightof the wonderful raw gold, had had the effect he desired. Thepartnership was arranged, the immediate finance was forthcoming, and,for the time at least, Leeson Butte was left in utter ignorance of itsneighboring Eldorado.
Once he had made his deal with Silas McGinnis, Beasley promptly openedhis heart in characteristic fashion.
"They're all sheep, every one of 'em," he beamed upon his confederate."They'll be so easy fleecin' it seems hardly worth while. All theyneed is liquor, and cards, and dice. Yes, an' a few women hangin'around. You can leave the rest to themselves. We'll get the gilt, andto hell with the dough under it. Gee, it's an elegant proposition!"And he rubbed his hands gleefully. "But ther' must be no delay. Wemust get busy right away before folks get wind of the luck. I'll needmarquees an' things until I can get a reg'lar shanty set up. Have yougot a wood spoiler you can trust?"
McGinnis nodded.
"Then weight him down with money so we don't need to trust him toomuch, and ship him out with the lumber so he can begin right away.We're goin' to make an elegant pile."
In his final remark lay the key-note of his purpose. But the truth ofit would have been infinitely more sure had the pronoun been singular.
Never was so much popularity extended to Beasley in his life as at themoment of his return to camp. When the gold-seekers beheld his convoy,with the wagons loaded with all those things their hearts and stomachscraved, the majority found themselves in a condition almost ready tofling welcoming arms about his neck. Their wishes had been expressed,their demands made, and now, here they were fulfilled.
A rush of trade began almost before the storekeeper's marq
uee waserected. It began without regard to cost, at least on the purchasers'parts. The currency was gold, weighed in scales which Beasley hadprovided, and his exorbitant charges remained quite unheeded by thereckless creatures he had marked down for his victims.
In twenty-four hours the camp was in high revelry. In forty-eightBeasley's rough organization was nearing completion. And long beforehalf those hours had passed gold was pouring into the storekeeper'scoffers at a pace he had never even dreamed of.
But the first rush was far too strenuous to be maintained for long.The strain was too great even for such wild spirits as peopled thecamp. It soared to its height with a dazzling rapidity, culminating ina number of quarrels and fights, mixed up with some incipientshooting, after which a slight reaction set in which reduced it to asimmer at a magnificently profitable level for the foxy storekeeper.Still, there remained ample evidence that the Devil was rioting in thecamp and would continue to do so just as long as the lure of goldcould tempt his victims.
Then came the inevitable. In a few days it became apparent that thenews of the "strike" had percolated abroad. Beasley's attempt atsecrecy had lasted him just sufficiently long to establish himself asthe chief trader. Then came the rush from the outside.
It was almost magical the change that occurred in one day. The placebecame suddenly alive with strangers from Leeson Butte and Bay Creek,and even farther afield. Legitimate traders came to spy out the land.Loafers came in and sat about waiting for developments. Gamblers,suave, easy, ingratiating, foregathered and started the ball of highstakes rolling. And in their wake came all that class of carrion whichis ever seeking something for nothing. But the final brand oflawlessness was set on the camp by the arrival of a number of jaded,painted women, who took up their abode in a disused shack sufficientlyadjacent to Beasley's store to suit their purposes. It was all verypainful, all very deplorable. Yet it was the perfectly naturalevolution of a successful mining camp--a place where, before the firmhand of Morality can obtain its restraining grip, human nature justruns wild.
The seedling had grown. Its rank tendrils were everywhere reaching outand choking all the better life about it. Its seeds were scatteredbroadcast and had germinated as only such seeds can. It only remainedfor the husbandman to gaze regretful and impotent upon his handiwork.His hand had planted the seedling, and now--already the wilderness wasbeyond all control.
Something of this was in the Padre's mind as he sat in his doorwayawaiting Buck's return for the night. The dusk was growing, andalready the shadows within the ancient stockade were black withapproaching night. The waiting man had forgotten his pipe, so deeplywas he engrossed with his thoughts, and it rested cold in his powerfulhand.
He sat on oblivious of everything but that chain of calm reasoningwith which he tried to tell himself that the things happening downthere on the banks of the Yellow Creek must be. He told himself thathe had always known it; that the very fact of this lawlessness pointedthe camp's prosperity, and showed how certainly the luck had come tostay. Later, order would be established out of the chaos, but for themoment there was nothing to be done but--wait. All this he toldhimself, but it left him dissatisfied, and his thoughts concentratedupon the one person he blamed for all the mischief. Beasley was theman--and he felt that wherever Beasley might be, trouble would neverbe far----What was that?
An unusual sound had caught and held his attention. He rose quicklyfrom his seat and stood peering out into the darkness which he hadfailed to notice creeping on him. There was no mistaking it. The soundof running feet was quite plain. Why running?
He turned about and moved over to the arm rack. The next moment he wasin the doorway again with his Winchester at his side.
A few moments later a short, stocky man leapt out of the darkness andhalted before him. As the Padre recognized him his finger left thetrigger of his gun.
"For Gawd's sake don't shoot, Padre!"
It was Curly Saunders' voice, and the other laid his gun aside.
"What's amiss?" demanded the Padre, noting the man's painful gaspingfor breath.
For a moment Curly hesitated. Then, finally, between heavy breaths heanswered the challenge.
"I got mad with the Kid--Soapy," he said. "Guess I shot him up. Heain't dead an' ain't goin' to die, but Beasley, curse him, set 'em onto lynch me. They're all mad drunk--guess I was, too, 'fore I startedto run--an' they come hot foot after me. I jest got legs of 'em an'come along here. It's--it's a mighty long ways."
The Padre listened without moving a muscle--the story so perfectlyfitted in with his thoughts.
"The Kid isn't dead? He isn't going to die?" His voice had neithercondemnation nor sympathy in it.
"No. It's jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh."
"What was the trouble?"
"Why, the durned young skunk wus jest tryin' to set them--them womenpayin' a 'party' call on the gal at the farm, an' they wus drunkenough to do it. It made me mad--an'--an', wal, we got busy with ourtongues, an' I shot him up fair an' squar'."
"And how about Beasley?"
"Why, it was him set the Kid to git the women on the racket. When hesee how I'd stopped it he got madder than hell, an' went right out ferlynchin' me. The boys wus drunk enough to listen to his lousy talk."
"Was he drunk?"
"Not on your life. Beasley's too sweet on the dollars. But I guesshe's got his knife into that Golden Woman of ours."
The Padre had no more questions to ask. He dropped back into the roomand lit the oil lamp.
"Come right in, Curly," he said kindly. Then he laid his rifle on thetable and pointed at it. "The magazine's loaded plumb up. Guess no manhas a right to give up his life without a kick. That'll help you ifthey come along--which they won't. Maybe Buck'll be along directly.Don't shoot him down. Anyway he's got Caesar with him--so you'll know.I'm going down to the camp."
For a second the two men looked into each other's eyes. The Padre readthe suspicion in Curly's. He also saw the unhealthy lines in hischeeks and round his mouth. Nor could he help feeling disgusted at thethoughts of the fortune that had come to the camp and brought allthese hideous changes in its wake.
He shook his head.
"I'm not giving you away," he said. "Guess I'll be back in an hour."
Curly nodded and moved over to one of the two chairs.
"Thanks, Padre," he said as the other passed quickly out of the room.
The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills Page 16
