The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXIX

  BEASLEY IN HIS ELEMENT

  The camp was sweltering under an abnormal heat. There was not onebreath of the usual invigorating mountain air. A few more degrees ofhumidity, and the cup of endurance would have been filled tooverflowing and toiling humanity breathing something like sheermoisture. The sky was heavy and gray, and a dull sun, as though it toohad been rendered faint-hearted, was painfully struggling against theladen atmosphere.

  The work of the camp went on. For hours human nature wrestled with agrowing inertia which robbed effort of all snap. But gradually, as theday wore on, the morning impetus gave way, and peevish tongues voicedthe general plaint. Men moved about slowly, their tongues activelycursing. 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 theydesired at such a price. They cursed the camp, the country, but morethan all they cursed the black hill from which they drew their living.

  Then came acknowledgment of defeat. One by one at first, and finallyin batches, they shouldered their tools and moodily withdrew from theattack. As they went weary eyes glanced back with hate and disgust atthe frowning buttresses of the hill, with awe at the steaming cloudhanging above the simmering waters of the suspended lake. Thedepressing shadow of Devil's Hill had for the moment becomeintolerable.

  Beasley hated the heat just as cordially as these toilers, but hewould have hated still more its sudden going, and the consequentappeasement of unnatural thirsts, which it was his pleasure and profitto slake. His own feelings were at all times subservient to hisbusiness instincts. This sudden, unaccountable heat meant added profitto him, therefore his complaint was half-hearted. It was almost as ifhe feared to give offense to the gods of his good fortune.

  Then, too, Beasley had so many things to occupy his busy brain. Histrade was one that required much scheming, a matter in which hereveled at all times. Problems of self-interest were his salt of life,and their accurate solution brought him as near earthly happiness aswell could be.

  Curiously enough problems were always coming his way. He chanced uponone that morning while busy in his storeroom, his attention dividedbetween pricing and stacking new dry goods and smashing flies on theback of his superheated neck. And it served him with food for thoughtfor the rest of the day.

  It took him quite unawares, and for that very reason gave him amplesatisfaction. He was bending over a pile of rolls of fabric when avoice 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 seemedsuperfluous. It was absurd. He looked up, and his astonished eyes fellupon the vision of an extremely well-dressed, refined-looking womanwhom he judged to be anything over fifty. But what held his attentionmost was the lean, emaciated face and penetrating eyes. There wassomething 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 anabruptness 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 andspeculation. 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 anadded imperiousness.

  "Guess Leeson Butte's nearest."

  The stranger considered a moment. Beasley's eyes never left her. Hehad 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. Hesmelt 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 itsattractiveness.

  "Who's the feller?" he asked unguardedly.

  "That's not your business." The woman's eyes were cold. "Send the teamover to the farm down the river in two hours' time. The horses must beable to travel fast. Here's the money."

  The saloon-keeper took the money promptly. But for once hisastonishment held him silent. Mercy Lascelles had reached the door togo. Then she seemed to change her mind. She paused.

  "There's fifty dollars more when I get back--if you keep your tonguequiet," she said warningly. "I don't want my business to get around. Ishould say gossip travels fast amongst the hills. That's what I don'twant."

  "I see."

  It was all the astonished man could think of to say at the moment. Buthe managed an abundant wink in a markedly friendly way.

  His wink missed fire, however, for the woman had departed; and by thetime he reached the door to look after her he saw her mounting thewagon, which was drawn by the heavy team from Joan's farm, and drivenby her hired man.

  As the stranger drove off he leant against the doorway and emitted alow whistle. In his own phraseology he was "beat," completely andutterly "beat."

  But this state of things could not last long. His fertile brain couldnot long remain under such a cloud of astonished confusion. He mustsort out the facts and piece them together. This he set to work on atonce.

  Abandoning his work in the storeroom he went at once to the barn, andgave orders for the dispatch of the team. And herein, for once, hetraded honestly with his visitor. He ordered his very best team to besent. Perhaps it was in acknowledgment of the problem she had offeredhim.

  Then he questioned his helpers. Here he was absolutely despotic. Andin less than half an hour he had ascertained several important facts.He learned that a team had come in from Crowsfoot the previousafternoon, bringing a passenger for the farm. The team had remained atthe farm, likewise the teamster. Only the fact that daylight thatmorning had brought the man into camp for a supply of fodder andprovisions had supplied them with the news of his presence in thedistrict. This had happened before Beasley was up.

  With this Beasley went back to the saloon, where his dinner was servedhim in the bar. His bartender was taking an afternoon off. It was athoughtful meal. The man ate noisily with the aid of both knife andfork. He had acquired all the habits of the class he had so long mixedwith. Nor was it until his plate of meat and canned vegetables hadnearly disappeared that light began to creep into his clouded brain.

  He remembered that Joan had refurnished the farm. Why? Because someone 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 nextmorning. 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 ishere--and he's wanted for murder. Who?

  At this point Beasley grinned. How many might there not be on YellowCreek who could be so charged?

  But his shrewd mind was very quick. This woman had not been into campuntil she visited him. Where had she been? In the hills--coming fromCrowsfoot. Still she might have been aware of the presence of her manbefore she came--through Joan.

  For a moment he was disappointed.

  But it was only for a moment. He quickly brightened up. A new idea hadoccurred to him which narrowed his field of possibilities. This womanwas educated, she belonged to a class he had once known himself. Shewould know nothing of the riffraff of this camp. It must be somebodyof the same class, or near it, somebody of education----He drew asha
rp breath, and his wicked eyes lit.

  The wildest, the most impossible thought had occurred to him. Hepondered long upon the passage of the trail from Crowsfoot to thefarm. He remembered how she did not desire the "gossip" totravel--especially to the hills.

  Suddenly he hailed his Chinese cook and flung his knife and fork downupon his plate. In his elation he forgot the heat, the sticky flies.He forgot his usual custom of abstention during the day. He pouredhimself out a long drink of really good whisky, which he gulped down,smacking his lips with appreciation before flinging his customarycurse 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 upsettheir whole focus of things by insisting that they have it at hisexpense. And when a third came along with a small parcel of gold dusthe 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 itquickly reached its limit, and resolved itself into his every-dayattitude, plus a desire to make up, at the first opportunity, thelosses incurred by his moments of weak generosity.

  The heat of the day soon afforded him his desire, for the limp andsweating miners straggled back into camp long before their usualworking day was ended. And what is more, they came to seek solace andrefreshment under his willing roof.

  By the middle of the afternoon the bar was fairly well filled. Theplace was little better than a furnace of humid heat. But under theinfluence of heartening spirits the temperature passed almostunnoticed, or at least uncared. Here at least the weary creatures werecalled upon for no greater effort than to deal cards, or raise a glassto their lips and hold it there until drained. They could stand anyheat in the pursuit of such pastimes.

  Beasley watched his customers closely. Three tables of poker weregoing, and from each he drew a percentage for the "chips" sold at thebar. Each table was well supplied with drinks. A group of five menoccupied one end of the counter, and two smaller groups were fartheralong. They were all drinking with sufficient regularity to suit hispurposes. Amongst the crowd gathered he noticed many of the men of theoriginal camp. There was Curly Saunders and Slaney at one poker tablewith Diamond Jack. Abe Allinson was in close talk with two financial"sharps" from Leeson, at the bar. The Kid was with a number of newhands who had only just come in to try their luck. He was endeavoringto sell a small share of his claim at a large price. Two others werewith the larger group at the bar, discussing "outputs" and new methodsof washing gold. It was a mixed collection of humanity, but there weresufficient 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 proppedhimself against his counter and, for once, paused from his everlastinghabit of glass wiping.

  "Guess none o' you heard the news?" he inquired, with a grin ofanticipation.

  His first effort failed to produce the effect he desired, so arepetition followed quickly. For a moment play was suspended at one ofthe tables, and the men looked up.

  "Noos?" inquired Diamond Jack.

  The Kid and his youthful companions looked round at the foxy face oftheir host.

  "Oh! I don't guess it's nuthin'," said Beasley. "Only--it's so dogonequeer."

  His manner was well calculated. His final remark drew the entirebarroom. All play and all talk was abruptly held up.

  "Wot's queer?" demanded Diamond Jack, while all eyes searched thesaloon-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. "Anyyou 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 drewcloser. 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'ssure murder been done, an' ther's goin' to be a big doin' around--inconsequence. Ther's word gone in to the sheriff at Leeson, an' the lawfellers o' that city is raisin' a mighty business to get warrantssigned. Say, I heerd they're sendin' a dozen dep'ties to hunt thesehills. 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 murderwas a low-down racket that if folks knew about it they'd be right outfer 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 mebeat."

  "Ther' ain't bin no murder since the camp got boomin'," said AbeAllinson 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 youmention 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 ofmischief. 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'scomin' to that farm--which shows that gal is mussed-up with the racketsomeways. Now I tho't a heap on this thing. An' I'm guessin' thismurder must have been done back East. Y' see that gal comes from backEast. 'Wal, now,' says I, 'how do we shape then?' Why, that gal--thatJonah gal--comes right here an' locates some feller who's done murderback 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 thesheriff'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 thoughtwas 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 weknow livin' in the hills. Jest two. Ther's Buck an'--the Padre. Buck'sbin around this creek ever since he was raised. I ain't no use forBuck. He's kind o' white livered, but he's a straight citizen. Thenthe Padre," he laughed again, "he's too good. Say, he's next best to apasson. 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 guessit's me."

  Beasley nodded.

  "You're dead right ther', boys," he said, with hearty good-will. "Itsure ain't the Padre. He's got religion, an' though I'm 'most alluscurious 'bout folks with religion--it ain't right to say ther's anyqueer reason fer 'em gettin' it. Then the Padre's bin here nigh twentyyears. Jest fancy! A feller of his eddication chasin' around thesehills fer twenty years! It's easy fer a feller raised to 'em, likeBuck. But when you've been a feller in a swell position East, to comean' hunt your hole in these hills fer twenty years, why, it's--it'sastonishin'. Still, that don't make no diff'rence. It can't be thePadre. He's got his reasons fer stayin' around here. Wal, nigh all ofus 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'tgoin' 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 ratherhave had it from some one else. He twisted his cigar across his lipsand spat a piece of tobacco leaf out of his mouth.

  "Wal," he began deliberately, "I don't guess it's good med'cinetalkin' names. But I don't mind sayin' right here this thing's made mefeel mean. The story's come straight fro
m that--that--Jonah gal'sfarm. Yep, it makes me feel mean. Ther's nothin' but trouble aboutthat place now--'bout her. I ain't got over Ike and Pete. Wal, I don'tguess 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 goodcitizens, mind, an' ther' ain't nothin' amiss. We ke'p the place goodan' 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 thewust sort of mischief--from this farm. It ain't right. It ain't asquare shake by a sight. I sez when ther's Jonahs about they need tobe 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 aboutany citizen in this place--but I don't guess any of us has store halosabout us, an' halos is the only things'll keep any feller safe whensheriffs get around."

  A murmur of approval greeted his argument. Few of the men in the campdesired the presence of a sheriff in their midst. There were fewenough among them who would care to have the ashes of their pastdisturbed by any law officer. Beasley had struck the right note forhis 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 Iput her out? Say," his face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, "ef I hadmy 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 righthere I'd give five hundred dollars to see her back turned on thisplace. I tell you, boys, an' I'm speakin' for your good, an' mine, ifshe stops around here we're goin' to get it--we'll get it good. TheLord knows how it's goin' to come. But it's comin', I feel it in mybones. It's comin' as sure as my name's Beasley."

  He threw such a sincerity and earnestness into his manner that he madea marked impression. Even Curly Saunders, who, with one or two of theolder hands, had some sort of regard for the girl they believed hadfounded their fortunes, was not quite without doubts. There was noquestion but mischief did seem to hang about the farm. Ike and Petehad been popular enough. The newer people had no sentiment on thematter, but they listened with interest to the saloon-keeper, feelingthat his was the voice of the leading citizen. Besides, the matter ofthe sheriff's coming was not pleasant. Many had spent a great part oftheir lives avoiding such contact.

  "Seems to me you're forgettin' that gal brought us our luck," the Kidsuggested impulsively. "You were ther' when we handed her the----"

  "Death's-head," laughed Beasley. Then his face hardened. "Tcha!" hecried with some heat. "You make me sick. I told you then, as I tellyou now, it was that storm brought us our luck, an' it brought us ourJonah with it. If you'd got a cent's worth of grit that gal 'ud go. Wedon't wish her harm. I ain't one to wish a gal harm. But go she mustif we want to be quit of trouble. Still, I'm on'y just sayin' what Ifeel. It don't matter a heap. Ther's the sheriff comin' along to grabsome one for murder. Maybe he'll chase up a few other rackets to fillin his time. It's things of that nature do matter. He's got to gitsome 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 customerswho entered the bar at that moment. The malice underlying his jestmust have been plain to any one observing the man.

  With this fresh diversion play at the card tables was resumed whilethe men at the bar fell back into their original groups. But thegeneral interest was absorbed in Beasley's news, and the channels oftalk were diverted. Beasley had sown his seed on fruitful soil. Heknew it. The coming of a sheriff, or any form of established law, intoa new mining camp was not lightly to be welcomed by the earliestpioneers.

  In the midst of this atmosphere a further interest arose. The lastperson Beasley expected to see in his bar at that hour of the day wasBuck. 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 underthe counter, having just served his fresh customers, when his foxyeyes encountered the dark face of the man he most hated on YellowCreek.

  In a moment he was all smiles.

  "Howdy, Buck," he cried, as though the sight of him was the one thingin the world he desired. Then he covertly winked at those nearest him.

  His wink conveyed all he intended, and the men turned and eyed thenewcomer curiously.

  Buck responded to the greeting indifferently, and proceeded tobusiness. He had not come for the pleasure of the visit. He passed aslip of paper across the counter.

  "Can you do them for me?" he inquired. "Just cast an eye over thatlist. 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 nowthere was more in his mind to make for brevity.

  Beasley studied the paper closely. And as he read down the list asmile spread over his mean face. It was a long list of supplies whichincluded 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 thefort? 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 menstanding by.

  "Oh, guess I can do it," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Sure I can doit. 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 generalsmile at his expense, he grew hot.

  "What's the matter?" he demanded sharply. And his demand was notintended for the saloon-keeper alone.

  "Ke'p your shirt on, Buck," exclaimed Beasley, with studiedgood-nature. "We couldn't jest help but laff." Then his eyes becamesentimentally 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 guychasin' around the hills, an' he's wanted fer--murder."

  The man was watching for an effect in Buck's face. But he might aswell 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 onlookerstransferred their attention to him. "Y' see, it was sort o' laffableyou comin' along buyin' winter stores in August, an' us jest guessin'what guy the sheriff would be chasin'--in the hills. He won't besmellin' 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 theman's look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knewbeyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced hercampaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into thecamp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. Atleast 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 nocorners to crawl around. Hand it out--an' quick."

  Buck's manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering firegrowing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitationwas only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one lasteffort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired,which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hopedto keep the company present on his side.

  "Ther's no offense, Buck," he said. "At least ther' sure needn't tobe. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin' you a l
aff--same aswe had."

  "I'm waitin'," said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring theexplanation.

  But Beasley's hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, hislast attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was alurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was theresult of what had occurred before Buck's coming. They expected him totalk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venomwhich he could never long restrain.

  "Guess I hadn't best ke'p you waitin', sure," he said ironically. Thenhis 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 challengeacross the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing eachother. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. Thelightning-like play of life and death.

  But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For onceBuck's heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley downwhere he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, buthe restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forcedhimself to calmness.

  Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike homeunfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random init. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show noweakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and hisconviction 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 lieto be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter themischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper'sface.

  "The truth don't come easy to you, Beasley," he said calmly, "unlessit's got a nasty flavor. Guess that's how it's come your way to tellit now."

  "Winter stores," laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed hishands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at themen looking on.

  Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity hadbeen absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became theperfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almostdeceived Buck himself.

  "See here, Buck," he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. "You an' medon't always see things the same way. Guess I don't allus hit it withthe Padre. No, I guess ther' ain't a heap of good feeling among thethree 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, ifthey'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 mea whole heap o' pleasure fixin' up your winter stores. An' good luckto you both--when you hit the long trail."

  A murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the companywho remembered the days before the gold strike. And Beasley, in hislong career of mischief, almost achieved popularity.

  Buck could scarcely believe his ears. And his incredulity was notlessened as he looked into the furtive eyes of the man who hadexpressed himself so cordially.

  But he had been given the opportunity he knew he would need sooner orlater. He knew that there were men in the camp who would stand by thePadre in emergency, and they must know the truth. Since Aunt Mercy'scampaign had opened, and the news of it was spread abroad, these menmust be told the facts, and know his own attitude. He might well needtheir assistance in the future, as they, in the past, had needed thePadre'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 knowhow Beasley's got this thing, fellers," he said, in his simplefashion. "It don't matter, anyway. I hadn't a notion the sheriff wascomin' along yet, either. That don't matter. Anyways I guessed hewould be comin' sooner or later, an' that's the reason I'm layin' instores of gun stuff an' things. Yes, he's comin' for the Padre on acharge 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 nighimpossible 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 countrygoin' 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 seehim through. You fellers, some o' you, know the Padre. You know whathe's done right here to help folks when they were starvin'. He evensold 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 hecomes he'll find the hills hotter than hell fer him, an' I'll have ahand in makin' 'em that way." He turned abruptly to Beasley, andpointed at the paper lying on the counter. "You'll do them things forme, an' I'll get 'em to-morrow."

  He turned away, flinging his farewell back over his shoulder as hereached the door.

  "So long, fellers," he cried, and pushed his way out.

  The moment he had gone every tongue was let loose. The gamblers cashedtheir "chips" at the bar. There was no more play that afternoon.Excitement ran high, and discussion was at fever heat. To a man thosewho 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 ahand in resisting the law. Beasley was in agreement with nearlyeverybody. He expressed a wonderful fury at the absurdity andinjustice, as he described it, of the charge. And, finally, hepossessed himself of the floor again for the purposes of his ownsubtle scheming.

  "What did I tell you, fellers?" he cried, when he had obtained ageneral 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'sgoin' to do the right thing. He'll stand by that Padre feller whilehe's got a breath in his body, an' he'll shoot the sheriff up as sureas sure. An' why? Because that feller, the Padre, sold his farm tohelp us old hands. Because he sold his farm to that 'Jonah' gal, who'sbrought all this trouble about. If she hadn't come around Pete an' Ikewould have bin living now. If she hadn't come around the Padrewouldn't be wanted for a murder he never committed. If she hadn't comearound Buck wouldn't have set himself up agin the law, an' foundhimself chasin' the country over--an outlaw. D'yer see it? You'reblind if you don't." He brought his clenched fist down on the counterin a whirlwind of indignation. "She's got to go," he cried. "I tellyou, she's got to go. Chase her out. Burn her out. Get rid of her fromhere. An' I got five hundred dollars says--do it."

  Beasley knew his men. And in every eye he saw that they were with himnow. Nor could anything have pleased him more than when Curly shoutedhis sudden sympathy.

  "Beasley's right, boys," he cried. "She's brought the rotten luck. Shemust go. Who's to say whose turn it'll be next?"

  "Bully for you," cried Beasley. "Curly's hit it. Who's the next victimof 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 handwith 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 hoursthe 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 oldscores.

  The Padre would be taken. He would see to that. The sheriff shouldknow every detail of Buck's intentions. Buck would ultimately betaken--after being outlawed. And Joan--the proud beauty whom Buck wasin love with--well, if she got out with her life it would be about allshe would escape with.

  Beasley felt very happy.