by Max Brand
“Still I had faith in him,” said the judge. “He was quite a geologist. He was a good, patient worker. And I kept grubstaking him for ten years. Finally my patience gave out. I told him that I was giving him supplies for the last time. Well, out he went, and came back inside of a month with the Lodestar Mine in his pocket, so to speak. I thought at first that it was a queer break of luck. But afterward I found out the truth.
“That old sourdough had spotted the lode during the second year he was working for me, but he wouldn’t tell of the strike so long as he could get grubstakes out of me. Why? Because he didn’t really want gold. He simply wanted to hunt for it. And he wanted to ramble around alone through the hills. When he confessed what he had done to me, he added that he never knew of any luck to come to a prospector who made a big strike. He made so much money that it poisoned him. ‘Gold poisoning,’ he said, was what most prospectors died of.
“I took so much out of the Lodestar that his share made the old fellow rich, but he was always gloomy, always expecting something to happen. What did happen was that a woman got her hands on him, married him, and then gave him such a devil of a time that he signed everything over to her as a way of getting a divorce.
“Three years after finding the Lodestar he was broke and happy again, and steering a burro through the mountains in search of another strike. He never found another. I kept him on a pension. But he was always happy. He used to say that he was the only man in the world that ever recovered from a bad case of gold poisoning.”
Wheeler Bent was able to laugh fluently at this tale, but the girl showed not the slightest amusement. She remained in her chair by the fire, regarding nothingness with far-journeying eyes.
Now and again her glance narrowed a little and that was always when she turned her gaze on the handsome face and the sparkling little golden mustache of Wheeler Bent.
For Wheeler Bent was changed. He was not the young man she had known so well in other days. There was a keenness about him, a suppressed excitement, the attitude of one who talks casually, but waits for the curtain to rise on an important stage.
The judge came over to her suddenly and stood before her with his hands clasped behind his back, while he teetered slowly back and forth. “Now you tell me, Eugenia,” he said. “What is the matter?”
She shook her head.
“Is it Jingo?” asked the judge.
“Yes,” she said.
She saw a quick shudder run through the body of Wheeler Bent. Perhaps that was not altogether strange. To all intents and purposes, she had been as good as engaged to Wheeler Bent. Now he was hardly more than a stranger. Yes, something more, but not in a pleasant sense.
Her father said: “Tell me what you’re thinking?”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t thinking, really,” said she. “It’s only feeling.”
“What sort?”
“Oh—that something has gone wrong.”
“With Jingo?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps something has. Perhaps he’s gone galloping—to get a broken neck,” said the judge angrily. “My dear, you have a fancy for a romantic, worthless gunman, and you’ll laugh at the memory of him in another month.”
“Excuse me,” said Wheeler Bent, rising from his chair. “I’ll trot along to bed. Good night, judge. Good night, Eugenia.”
When he shook hands with her, she looked squarely at him, amazed by the alteration that appeared in his face when he was close to her. His expression was set in a new way. There was about him the look of one who is prepared and nerved for a great effort.
After he had left the room, the judge said: “I suppose he was right to get out of the way, but he had a right to hear us talk. He’s been rather close to you in the past, Eugenia.”
“I don’t think he ever will be again,” said the girl.
“No,” agreed the judge slowly. “I don’t suppose that he ever will be again.”
“Why are you so sure?” she asked.
“For your reason, I imagine,” said the judge. “Because this lad Jingo has come galloping into our family circle.”
“That’s the reason,” agreed the girl.
“You can’t believe that he would be wild enough to gallop off and just send back a message to you?” said the judge.
She shook her head. “It’s the nature of the message,” she answered. “He might have said other things. He wouldn’t have said that.”
“That he had forgotten that he had a previous engagement?” repeated the judge, chuckling.
“He wouldn’t be rude,” she said. “If he had to lie, he would tell a polite lie.”
“He has the reputation of being pretty rough,” said the judge.
“He has the reputation of liking a fight,” she said. “Rudeness is a different thing.”
“No matter what you think,” said the judge, “the fact remains that he did make that remark. That was the message he gave Wheeler Bent, and that Wheeler gave you.”
She shook her head in silence.
The judge exclaimed: “Gene, you don’t think that Wheeler would lie to you?”
She hesitated for a long moment. He kept waiting, leaning over her a little.
Then she said: “Yes, I’m sure that he lied.”
The judge took a step back and frowned at her. “That’s serious,” he said.
“I know it’s serious,” she agreed.
“What do you think is in the air?”
“Trouble,” she said shortly.
“Gene,” muttered the judge, “this fellow Jingo has upset you a good deal. You’re taking him pretty seriously.”
“So are you,” she answered.
He started. But suddenly he nodded and answered: “Yes, I’m taking him seriously. Because—well, because I don’t think there’s anything wrong about him—nothing that wouldn’t wash off, so to speak.”
He began to walk up and down. Then he took a chair and remained staring at the fire.
She stood up, saying: “I’m going upstairs.”
He bade her good night absently. She went to the door, paused there to look back at him, and felt with a sudden outrush of affection that there were few problems in the world that she could not work out with his assistance. But on this night—well, things might happen that could not be put straight in the morning.
She hurried up the stairs, resolved on speaking with Wheeler Bent, but when she rapped at his door, twice and loudly, there was no answer. She pushed the door open. A lamp burned in front of the window, as though to give assurance that Bent was in the room, but he was gone!
CHAPTER 23
The Voice of the Water
That he should be gone from his room was not very strange, after all. She kept telling herself this, and yet her heart was beating faster and faster. She told herself that she would wait there in the room until he returned; there were a few questions that she had to ask of him. So she went to the open window and looked out at the night, now brightened under the rising moon.
That light showed the shingles on the sloping roof of the shed just beneath the window. It showed the grand forms of the mountains against the horizon, and it showed the beginning of the trail that advanced toward the upper hills. On that trail she saw a man running, head down with labor as he took the grade. And that man was Wheeler Bent!
A voice seemed to shout into her ear that he must be stopped, and that she must find out where he was bound.
She was out of the room in an instant, and down the stairs and through the back door. It was wide open, as Bent must have left it in going from the house. She hurried out beyond the shed. Wheeler Bent was no longer in sight on the first lap of the trail, but he would be in view and in earshot, she was sure, if she ran up to the first angling bend of it. For beyond that the trail went up as steeply as a ladder, and he would be climbing more slowly.
So she ran to the first turn.
But Bent was not in sight.
She cupped her hands at her lips and shouted on a high-pitched, wailing note: “Wheeler! Wheeler Bent!”
The echo beat back at her, a flat, dull, quick sound. And all at once her heart was hammering and thundering and choking her as it swelled within her. She ran up the sharp slope of the way, staggering with haste and with the steepness. So she gained the next level of the trail—and saw it winding easily before her, but still without a trace of Bent upon it.
She was too breathless to call for him again instantly. She looked back, with the thought of returning to the house and giving up this wild-goose chase. But as she stared at the moonlit picture of the house and the big barns beside it, with the hay wagons standing nearby like awkward, black-ribbed skeletons, she heard the mourning voice of the creek rising out of its valley, and a new panic came over her. It was as though the voice spoke directly to her.
She ran on again, around several turns of the trail. Then, when there was still no trace of Wheeler Bent, she cupped her hands at her lips and shouted his name once more: “Wheeler Bent! Oh, Wheeler!”
She got not even an echo for an answer, only the dull roaring of her own blood in her ears. And then, suddenly, she hoped that he had not heard her. For she remembered at that moment the expression that had been beginning in his eyes before he said good night to her and to her father. If that expression grew, it would not be a thing for her to face by night!
It was better, perhaps, simply to follow along in the hope of discovering what Bent aimed his course for. Since he had gone on foot, his destination could not be very far away.
But when she came to the division of the trail, where one branch of it ran into the farther hills and the other half extended down into the upper ravine of the creek, she paused for a long moment. In the upper ravine there was nothing to be found but naked rocks and the rushing of the stream. And yet the voice of the water now called to her more intimately than before.
Yonder in the ravine, Jingo was doing his best to keep the attention of Jake Rankin and the two men who helped Jake keep watch. For, while Jingo entertained the three, the Parson was still busily at work, rubbing his ropes, with all the backward strength of his arms, against the edge of the boulder where he leaned.
If there had not come to the ears of the Parson, now and again, the muted sound of parting of strands of the rope, he would not have continued his labor, it seemed certain. Moreover, there was something in his huge, ugly face that was like a hope. He kept on stealthily, his shoulders and elbows working imperceptibly, except to a keen eye like that of Jingo.
He even saw the moment when the blood began to run out from the chafed arms of the Parson. It was a mere darkening of the surface of the rock, barely visible from the side. But it increased rapidly. It looked as though the Parson, in his labors, had chafed through some artery in his wrist. After all, the vital life was hidden close under the skin in that part of the body.
It was even a possibility that the Parson had chosen this moment of letting the life run out of his body rather than waiting for a blow on the head and then that horrible death in the grinding mill of the cataract that muttered in the distance.
But it needed only a moment for Jingo to decide that he was wrong. Whatever was in the mind of the Parson, he would not give up hope until the last instant.
So Jingo went on with the story of the brindle steer that Hugh Wilson had bought from the rustlers, and what followed in the track of the steer, and how “Laughing Dan” McGillicuddy had called on Jingo to come and join the Dance of the Brindle Steer up there in Lawson County. It was a good story, particularly after the point where Jingo joined and speeded up the dance.
Little Boyd, the rat-face, kept making small snarling noises of delight, and Oliver grunted with pleasure now and again.
Boyd said finally: “Jake, it’s almost kind of too bad to bump off a gent like Jingo. It’d be kind of a game to ride a trail with this here hombre.”
Jake Rankin answered: “I’ll tell you boys something. Jingo takes things easy, like a crook. He likes a fight as much as a crook. He likes a change as much as a crook. But he ain’t a crook. And all you’d get out of him after a while would be a dose of lead between the ribs one of these days. But, leaving all of that out of it, I got a brother back home that’s been plastered by him. And when I get back to town I wanta tell my brother something that’ll make him sit up in bed and take an interest in life ag’in!”
That ended the argument. Boyd muttered: “Aw, I was just talking. Go on, Jingo. What happened after you got the greaser cornered?”
“Wait a minute,” broke in Rankin thoughtfully. “Seems like Jingo was talking to kill time.”
“Sure he is,” answered Boyd. “He’s talking to keep his mind off the noise of the water.”
They were silent for an instant, listening to the cool, dashing sound of the cataract, and the small muttering of the echoes.
Then Rankin said: “All right. But Jingo’s got something in his head, mind you!”
“Brains,” suggested Boyd, “but they’ll stop working pretty soon!”
The attention of the crew was so totally fixed upon Jingo by this time that the Parson, with a slight nod of understanding at Jingo, began to saw on his ropes with a larger and more reckless motion of his arms. And the dark stain spread farther over the surface of the rock, and the gleam of the coursing blood was so plain to the eyes of Jingo that he wondered how the others could fail, even at the first casual glance, to mark the thing.
“Hey!” cried Boyd suddenly. “There’s somebody coming! Jake, what we going to do?”
“Wait a minute,” said Rankin. He stepped back among the boulders. Jingo could distinctly hear the thump and the grinding of heels on the rocks as some one came on the run toward them.
Then Rankin stepped back into view, saying: “Sure, there’s somebody coming, and it’s the boss. Jingo, you and the Parson won’t have long to wait.”
Out through the tangle of the great rocks came Wheeler Bent a moment later. He was panting from the hard effects of his run, and he stood there leaning his hand against a big stone for an instant, and getting his breath. But his smile of satisfaction had begun even before he was able to speak.
At last he gasped: “I was afraid, every step I took along the way, that I wouldn’t find you fellows around here. I was afraid that something would go wrong.”
Oliver said: “Three hearts that beat as one, boss. What could go wrong with us?”
“That’s right,” agreed Boyd. “Nothing could go wrong. We got him in irons, and the key’s been throwed away. What could go wrong?”
Wheeler Bent nodded. Then he went over to Jingo and leaned above him. “How goes it?” he asked.
“Better than you dream,” said Jingo. “Thanks.”
“Better?” snapped Wheeler Bent, with a suspicious side glance at Jake Rankin.
“Sure, a lot better,” said Jingo.
“He’s just talking,” said Jake Rankin. “You can’t put him down till you put him dead. He’s got that kind of a tongue. It’s gotta keep going.”
“Well,” said Wheeler Bent, “I’ll tell you that she and her father are all worried about you, Jingo. You’ll be sorry to hear about that, I guess.”
Jingo said nothing. He merely bent back his head and looked calmly up into the face of Wheeler Bent.
“She’s rather tragic about it,” went on Bent. “But she’ll get over all that. And when she’s over it, there’ll be a good friend, an old friend, a tried-and-true friend, waiting to take her to the altar. Eh?”
He laughed, and Jingo said: “She’s seen a man, old son. She’ll never make that mistake. Not that way.”
“Who you guys talking about?” demanded the curious Boyd.
“Nothing you know about,” answered Wheeler Bent. “Just a little secret. We might call it a family secret, Jingo, eh?”
“We might call it that,” said Jingo.
“Well,” said Wheeler Bent, “the time’s come, boys.”
“How d’you want us to go about it?” demanded Jake Rankin.
“Pop ’em over the head and then throw ’em in the water. That’s good enough for me.”
He added: “Wait a minute. I’ll do the trick on Jingo. I’d enjoy doing it, as a matter of fact!”
Wheeler Bent took out a revolver as he spoke, and grasped it firmly and swayed the heavy gun up and down, ready for the stroke. That was the instant that Jingo heard a distinct popping sound as a big strand of the Parson’s rope gave way.
CHAPTER 24
The Parson’s Charge
That sound of the parting rope strand was no doubt partially covered by the noise the creek was continually making, yet it seemed very strange to Jingo that every one of the four men did not whirl suddenly around. Perhaps it was because the thing plucked at the strings of his heart that it seemed to him certain that the four must have heard it, and that they were masking their knowledge.
Or perhaps it was the savage, panting voice of Wheeler Bent that kept the attention of the rest. They could not see the great arms of the Parson swing clear from behind his back. Tangled fragments of rope hung down from his wrists, and from the frayed ends of the rope the blood was dripping.
“You’re a bright fellow, Jingo,” Wheeler Bent was saying. “You’re so bright that perhaps you’ll be able to say a good prayer for yourself—out loud! Mind you, you’ll live just as long as it takes you to say the prayer—out loud!” There was a laughter trying to get into the rage and savage delight of his voice.
Jingo looked up into the face of Bent and saw the beast in it. The eyes were changed. The flash was furrowing up around them and covering them with shadow.
Jingo saw the hand that weighted the revolver above him and the strain of the knuckles in grasping the gun. He saw, also, that forward sway of the freed arms of the Parson in the background, and something that was more important to him than anything else, though it was simply another study in facial expression. For the Parson had not the look of guilty fear that a man wears when he is hoping to free himself from an immediate peril and then dodge away. Rather, he looked like one who is shaking off impediments so that he can charge into battle.
