CHAPTER XII
"FOOL'S LUCK"
Gaunt, unshaven, weary, Winthrop rested on the crest of the northernrange. Overland, looking for water, toiled on down the slope with thelittle burro. Winthrop rose stiffly and shuffled down the rocks. Nearthe foot of the range he saw the burro just disappearing round a bend ina canon. When he came up with Overland, the tramp had a fire going andhad pitched the tent. The canon opened out to a level green meadow,through which ran a small stream. They had come a long day's journeyfrom the water-hole on the other side of the range. They were safe fromordinary pursuit. That evening beside the fire, Overland Red told againthe story of the dead prospector, the gold, and the buried papers. Inhis troubled slumbers the Easterner dreamed of pacing along the trackcounting the ties, and eventually digging in the sand, digging until hisvery soul ached with the futility of his labor. Waking, he never lostfaith in the certainty of finding the place. He now knew the tramp wellenough to appreciate that the other had not risked his own life andnearly killed one of his pursuers through sheer bravado, or fear, orpersonal hatred. Something more potent was beneath the tramp'smotives--some incentive that was almost a religion. So far, Winthrop wascorrect. He erred, however, in supposing Overland to be obsessed with amania for gold for its own sake. The erstwhile sheriff of Abilene haddreamed a dream about an adopted waif and a beautiful young girl. Thedream was big. Its fulfillment would require much money. There was moreof the poet in Overland Red than his best friend had ever imagined.
Three days they rested in the wild seclusion of the canon. The silence,the solemnity of the place, fascinated Winthrop. The tiny stream, coldand clear, the vegetation, in a region otherwise barren-gray andburning,--the arid Mojave with its blistering heat, the trees, thepainted rocks,--ochre, copper, bronze, red, gray, and dim lilac in thedistances,--the gracious shade, the little burro, half ludicrous, halfpathetic in its stolid acceptance of circumstances,--all had a charm forhim that soothed and satisfied his restlessness.
Meanwhile the indefatigable Overland spun yarn after yarn of the roadand range, and rolled innumerable cigarettes with one hand, much toWinthrop's amusement.
The third morning Winthrop had awakened feeling so completely refreshedthat he begged Overland to allow him to make an attempt to find thehidden papers and the little bag of gold. Overland demurred at first,fearing that the Easterner would become lost or stricken with the heat.Throughout the day Winthrop argued stubbornly that he ran no risk ofcapture, while Overland did. He asserted that he could easily find thewater-hole, which was no difficult task, and from there he could go bycompass straight out to the tracks. Overland had told him that somewherenear a little culvert beneath the track was the marked tie indicatingthe hiding-place of the dead prospector's things. It would mean ajourney of a day and a night, traveling pretty continuously.
Finally Overland agreed to Winthrop's plan to make the attempt thefollowing day.
* * * * *
At the foot of the range Overland gave his companion a canteen and apiece of gunnysack wrapped round some hardtack and jerked beef.
"Don't I need my gun this time?" queried Winthrop.
"Nope, Billy. 'Cause why? You don't generally kill a little gopher or alittle owl that's settin' up tendin' to his business, because you ain'tscared of them. But you will go off of the trail to kill a rattler, aside-winder, because he's able to kill you if he takes a notion.Correct. Now a tenderfoot totin' a gun is dangerouser than any rattlerthat ever hugged hisself to sleep in the sun--and most fellas travelin'the desert knows it. Why, I'm plumb scared of a gun-totin' tenderfoot,myself. Not havin' a gun will be your best recommend, generallyspeakin'. Stick to the bugs, Billy; stick to the bugs."
"Well, you ought to know."
"I got seven puckers in my hide to prove what I say. Six of 'em were putthere by plumb amachoors in the gun line; fellas I never took pains todraw on quick, never suspectin' nothin'. The other, number seven, wasput there by a gent that meant business. He died of a kind of leadpoisonin' right immediate."
They shook hands, the battered, sunburned adventurer, rough-bearded,broad-chested, genial with robust health, and the slender, almostdelicately fashioned Easterner, who had forgotten that there were suchthings as lungs, or doctors,--for the time being.
"Say, Billy, you need a shave," commented Overland, as the other turnedto begin his journey across the desert.
Winthrop grinned. "You need--er--decapitating," he retorted, glancingback. Then he faced the south and strode away.
Overland, ascending the range, paused halfway up. "Decap-itating," hemuttered. "Huh! That's a new one on me. De-cap--Let's see! Somethin' todo with a fella's hat, I reckon. It's easy to run a word down and holeit if you got brains. Mebby Billy meant for me to get a new one. Well,the constable's friend only put one hole in her--she's a pretty good hatyet."
* * * * *
Overland found his slow way back to the hidden canon. He felt a littlelonely as he thought of Collie. He gave the burro some scraps of campbread, knowing that the little animal would not stray so long as he wasfed, even a little, each day.
It was while he was scouring the fry-pan that he noticed the black sandacross the stream. Leisurely he rose and scooped a panful of the sandand gravel and began washing it, more as a pastime than with an idea offinding gold. Slowly he oscillated the whispering sand, slopping thewater out until he had panned the lot. He spread his bandanna on asmooth rock and gently emptied the residue of the washing on it."Color--but thin," he said. "Let's try her again."
He moved farther upstream--this time with one of his regular pans. Hebecame absorbed in his experiment. He washed panful after panful,slowly, carefully, collectedly. Suddenly he stood up, swore softly, andflung the half-washed dirt of the last pan on the rocks. "I'm a nut!"he exclaimed. "This livin' in civilization has been puttin' my intellec'to the bad. Too much Eastern sassiety." And with this inexplicableself-arraignment he stooped at the tent-door, buckled on his gun, andstarted upstream. He glanced from side to side of the steep andnarrowing walls as he advanced slowly. He passed places where the streamdisappeared in the sand to find some subterranean channel and reappearbelow again. Rounding an angle of the cliff, he dropped to his knees andexamined some tiny parallel scratches on a rounded rock--the marks madeby a boot-heel that had slipped. For an hour he toiled over the rocks onup the diminishing stream. "Gettin' thin," he muttered, gazing at thesilver thread of water rippling over the pebbles. A few feet ahead thecliffs met at the bottom in a sharp-edged "V," not over a foot apart inthe stream-bed, but widening above. Overland scrambled through. On theother side of the opening he straightened up, breathing hard. His handcrept to his hip. On a sandy level a few yards ahead of him stood aragged and faded canvas tent, its flap wavering idly in a breath ofwind. In front of the tent was the rain-washed charcoal of an old fire.A rusted pan, a pick, and the worn stub of a shovel lay near the stream.A box marked "Dynamite" was half-filled with odds and ends of emptytins, cooking-utensils, and among the things was a glass fruit-jar halffilled with matches.
Slowly Overland's hand dropped to his side. He stepped forward, stooped,and peered into the tent. "Thought so," he said laughing queerly. Savefor a pair of old quilts and an old corduroy coat, the place was empty.
"Fool's luck," muttered Overland. "Wonder the Gophertown outfit didn'tfind him and fix him. But come to think of it, they ain't so anxious tocross over to this side of the range and get too clost to a real town,and get run in or shot up. Fool's luck," he reiterated, coolly rolling acigarette and gazing about with a critical eye. "They's another trailinto this canon that the prospector knowed. I got to find it. Billy'llbe some interested."
Overland Red: A Romance of the Moonstone Cañon Trail Page 13
