by Dean Owen
He judged grades, rushed them, conquered them, sometimes at a crawl, slid and skipped and jumped down slopes, negotiated curves on two wheels and brought them triumphantly through White Cliff Cañon, over the malpais belt, up and across a mesa and so to the far brink of it an hour before dawn without puncture, without a broken leaf in the springs, with shock absorbers still on duty and the cylinders performing full service.
Cold and raw as it was, the engine was hot and they halted to cool it. They could see a light or two glimmering at the foot of the mesa, something that had not shown in the deserted mining camp for many years. Miranda Bailey shivered as she got stiffly from the car.
“I’ve got some powdered coffee an’ some solid alcohol,” she announced. “We can all have somethin’ hot to drink anyway. It won’t take but a minute. Here’s some cold biscuits we can warm up on that radiator. It’s nigh as good as a stove.”
The trio watched interestedly the capable way in which she got together the meal, adding sugar and evaporated milk to her coffee. Sam picked up the tin of solid alcohol after it had cooled off.
“It’s too bad they can’t fix up the real stuff that way,” he said. “It ’ud sure make a hit. Canned Tom-and-Jerry, all ready for heatin’.”
“And you called Soda-Water Sam,” said Miranda Bailey.
“That title was give me in derision,” replied Sam. “Me, I don’t hesitate to say I like my licker. Likewise I can do ’thout it. They claim that I used to leave nothin’ but the sody-water inter a saloon once I’d entered it. Which same is a calummy. Gittin’ light in the east, ain’t it, folks?”
Coffee-comforted, they made the down-road as the sun rose above the rim of the eastern range, so jagged it seemed trying to claw back the mounting sun. Ever in view below them lay the intermountain valley in which the camp had been located. Its floor was jumbled with hard-cored hills. There was little greenery. A few cottonwoods, fewer willows along the deep bed of a scanty stream. Under the sunrise the whole scene was theatrical with vivid light and shade. The crumpled ground, the deep-ridged hills, all seemed unreal, made up of papier-mâché, crudely modeled and painted, garish, unfinished. The effect was enhanced by the appearance of the one main street of the camp and the few scattering cabins on the hills, the ancient dumps in front of the lateral shafts where the weathered timbers sagged.
There were a few tents, some wagons and picketed horses, and there were a great many machines parked at will. But, from the height, it all looked like the miniature scene of a panoramic model, the houses cardboard, the horses and wagons toys of tin. The horses were the only moving objects, no smoke curled yet from the chimneys.
Here and there unbroken glass in the windows flung back the sun. A door opened and a midget in shirtsleeves came out, stretching arms, palpably yawning. Suddenly smoke jetted from a tumbled chimney, other puffs followed and steady vapors mounted. Ant-like men emerged from every house, gathered in little knots, busied themselves with the horses, hurried back to breakfasts. Faint sounds came up to the travelers.
“W’udn’t think that place had been dead as a cemetery fo’ years?” commented Sandy. “Stahted up overnight like an old engine. That’s the hotel, with the high front. Furniture all in it an’ in the cabins. Most of the fixtures left in the saloons, an’ there was a plenty of them. Two hotels, five restyronts, seven gamblin’ houses, twenty-two saloons an’ the rest sleepin’ cabins. That was Dynamite. When they git it dusted off and started up it’ll run ortermatic.”
“Cuttin’ out the saloons,” said Miranda.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Mormon, turning in his seat. “You-all want to remember, ma’am, that this is an unco’porated town an’ that’s there’s allus a shortage of law an’ order for a whiles wherever there’s a strike, gold, oil or whatever ’tis. Eighty percent of the rush is a hard-shelled lot an’ erlong with ’em is a smaller bunch that thrives best when things is run haphazard. There’ll be licker down there, an’ it’ll sure be quickfire licker at that. If you warn’t the kind you are,” added Mormon, “I’d tell you that down there ain’t no place fo’ a woman?”
“Meanin’?” snapped Miranda Bailey. But there was a gleam in her eye that showed of a compliment accepted.
“Meanin’,” said Mormon “that, ef you’ll take it ’thout offense, you-all air plumb up-to-date. When wimmen took up the ballot I figger they wasn’t on’y ready fo’ equal rights, they knew how to git ’em. ’Side from the shootin’ end of it, I’d say you was as well equipped as any man to look out fo’ yore own interests.”
“Thanks,” replied Miranda. “I suppose you mean that as a compliment. Also I know one end of a gun from another an’ I can hit a barn if it ain’t flyin’. Ed, what you stoppin’ fer?”
“Blamed if they ain’t a puncture,” said Ed as he put on the brakes. “We got a spare tire but ’twon’t do to spile this ’un. We got to git back some time. Might not be able to buy a spare round here. I got to fix this.”
“Fix it when you git down,” said his aunt. “Put on the spare. I’m kinder nervous to git my claim staked. There’s a sight of folks here. Look at ’em runnin’ around like so many crazy chickens. Put on the spare, Ed, while we pile out. An’ hurry.”
The spare was soon adjusted and they rolled down to the valley and over the dusty road to the camp. Before they reached the main street a car passed them from behind with a rush, driver and passengers reckless, whooping as they rode, one man waving a bottle, another firing his gun into the air.
“That’s the kind that’ll figger to run Dynamite fo’ a while,” said Sandy. “I’ll bet there ain’t twenty old-timers in the camp—real miners, I mean.”
The street was alive with changing groups, merging, breaking up to listen to some fresh report of a strike, or opinion as to the prospects. There were no women in sight. The men were of all sorts, from cowboys in their chaps, who had left the range for the chance of sudden wealth, to storekeepers from Hereford and other towns. Excitement reigned, no one was normal. Bottles passed freely. Among the crowd moved shifty-eyed men who had come to speculate. There were gamblers, plain bullies, swaggerers, with here and there a bearded miner, gray of hair and faded blue of eye, either moving steadily through the throng or held up by a little crowd to whom he declaimed with the right of experience. Some, it seemed certain, must be on their claims, but the bulk of the men who filled the street of the resurrected town, were those who prey upon the work and luck of others, camp-followers of the Army of Good Fortune.
Mormon’s pronouncement that the town, after its long desertion, had automatically refunctioned, was not far wrong. Rudely lettered signs proclaimed where meals could be bought and boldly announced gambling.
KENO—CHUCKALUCK AND STUD
CRAPS AND DRAW POKER
THE OLD RELIABLE FARO BANK
J. PLIMSOLL, PROP.
read Sandy.
“He’s here, lookin’ fo’ easy money, both ends an’ the middle,” he drawled. “W’udn’t wonder but what we’d rub up ag’in’ him ’fo’ we leave.”
“You’ll want to go right through to Molly’s claims, I suppose,” said Miranda Bailey. “Do you know where they are?”
“I can soon find the location,” replied Sandy. “But there ain’t any extry hurry. They’ve been recorded. They’ll keep. We’ll git us some real hot grub at one of these restyronts an’ listen a bit to the news. Find out where is the most likely place fo’ you an’ yore nevvy to locate.”
“Ain’t you afraid Plimsoll or some one’ll have jumped those claims?” asked the spinster.
“W’udn’t be surprised. But there’s allus two ways to jump, Miss Mirandy. In an’ out. Let’s try Cal Simpson’s Place. I knew him when he was runnin’ a chuck-wagon. He’s sure some cook if it’s him.”
They pressed through the crowded street to the sign. Next door to the cabin that Simpson had preempted on the first-come-first-served o
rder that prevailed, was one of the olden saloons. Through door and window they could see the crowded bar with bottles and tin mugs upon the ancient slab of wood. Over the door the inscription:
ROCKY MOUNTAIN GRAPEJUICE
MULE BRAND
TWO KICKS FOR ONE BUCK
Some looked curiously at Miranda Bailey, but the sight of her escort checked any familiarity. Covered with dust from their ride, guns on hip, the three musketeers did not encourage persiflage at the expense of their outfit and they passed unchallenged into the eating-house where a stubby man with a big paunch shouted greetings at Sandy.
“You ornery son of a gun! An’ Mormon. This yore last, Mormon. No? I beg yore pardon, marm. I c’ud have wished Mormon ’ud struck somethin’ sensible an’ satisfactory at last. It’s his loss more’n your’n. What’ll you have, folks? I’ve got steak an’ po’k an’ beans. Drove over some beef. More comin’ ter-morrer. I’ll have a real mennoo by the end of the week. Steak? Seguro! Biscuits an’ coffee.”
He shouted orders to a helper and hurried off to pan-broil the steaks. To the order he added some fried potatoes.
“They ain’t on the bill-of-fare,” he said. “Try ’em, marm. Hope you strike it lucky, Sandy. Damn few—beggin’ yore pahdon, miss—damn few of this crowd ever had a blister on their hands. It ain’t like the old days when the sourdoughs made a strike. They worked their own shafts. This bunch specklates on ’em. A claim’ll change hands twenty times between now an’ ter-morrer night.
“Rush is over fo’ the mornin’. I’ll sit in with you, if you don’t mind. I got my steak in that pan.”
“What’s the indications?” asked Sandy, after Simpson had rejoined them.
“Big. Look here. White gold!” He pulled out a piece of tin white mineral with a brilliant metallic luster, sparkling with curious crystals. “Sylvanite—twenty-five percent, gold an’ twelve an’ a half silver. Veined in the porphyry. There’s a young assayer come in last night. He ’lows it’s sylvanite, same as they have over to Boulder County in Colorado. He comes from the Boulder School of Mines. He’s a kid, but I w’udn’t wonder but he knows what he’s talkin’ about. Some calls it telluride. But it’s gold, all right, an’ there’s a big vein of it close to the surface on the knoll east side of Flivver Crick.”
They passed the heavy mineral from hand to hand, examining it with eager curiosity. Simpson rambled on.
“Over five hundred in camp an’ more comin’ all the time. The rush ain’t started yet. Goin’ to be an old-time boom, sure. Bound to make money ef you don’t hold on too long. Peg you out a claim or two ’long that east bank, Sandy. Don’t matter ’ef she’s located or not, you can sell it fo’ mo’n you’ll ever git out of it by workin’ it.
“This man Plimsoll aims to make him a fortune,” he continued. “He’s got a gang of bullies with him who’re stakin’ out the best claims an’ jumpin’ others. He’s runnin’ a game wild. He’s here to clean up. I tell you, Sandy, the sheriff ought to be on the job on the start of a rush like this. But he’s t’other end of the county, they tell me, an’ likely he won’t hear of it for three-four days. And by that time she may have blew up ag’in,” he closed pessimistically. “Blew up once, did Dynamite. This may be jest a flash in the pan, a grass-root outcrop. That’s the way she started when old man Casey drifted in an’ his burro kicked up pay-ore. Damn—dern—few of this crowd’ll ever stop to run shaft or tunnel. Though this young assayin’ feller talks big about folds an’ uplifts, synclines an’ anticlines. Claims the po’phyry is syncline. You got to catch it where the fold is shaller or else dig half-way to China. You still in the cow business, Sandy?”
So he chatted until fresh customers came in and claimed his skill and steaks. Miranda Bailey and her companions finished the meal and started out.
The Casey claims were on the east side of the creek, Sandy knew. The old prospector’s lore, or instinct, had been unfailing. It remained to see if his marks and monuments had been respected. Molly had said that the assessment work had been done, and she had so described the place in a narrow terrace of the hill that Sandy felt sure of finding them without trouble.
He pointed out a sign over the door of a shack ahead, white lettered on black oil cloth:
CLAY WESTLAKE.
ASSAYER—SURVEYOR AND
MINING ENGINEER.
A knot of men were milling about the place.
“Doin’ a trade already,” said Sam. “Must have brung that sign erlong with him. Smart, fo’ a youngster. Simpson said he was a kid. How ’bout seein’ him befo’ Miss Bailey an’ Ed here stake their claims? I’m aimin’ to mark out one fo’ me, same time.”
“Also me,” said Mormon.
Guffaws suddenly rose from the little crowd by the assayer’s sign. A deep voice boomed out in bullying tone, followed by silence, then more laughs. Sandy leaned to Mormon.
“You keep her an’ young Ed back,” he said. “Trouble here, I figger.”
Mormon nodded, stepping ahead, blocking Miranda’s progress in apparently aimless and clumsy fashion while Sandy, his hands dropping to his gun butts, lifting the weapons slightly and, releasing them into the holsters once again, lengthened his stride, walking cat-footed, on the soles of his feet, as he always did when he scented trouble. Sam, easing his own gun, lightly touched his lips with the tip of his tongue and followed Sandy with eyes that widened and brightened.
“Bullyin’ the kid, I reckon,” he said to Sandy as they went. Sandy did not need to nod before they reached the half-ring that had formed about a young chap in khaki shirt, riding breeches and puttees, whose fair hair was curly above a face tanned, and resolute enough. Yet he was clearly nervous at the jibes of the crowd and the actions of the man who faced him, heavy of body, long of arm, heavy of jowl; a deep-chested, broad-shouldered individual whose head, cropped close, tapering in a rounded cone from his bushy eyebrows, helped largely to give him the aspect of a professional wrestler, or a heavyweight prizefighter. He carried a big blued Colt revolver, and the way he spun the weapon on the trigger guard showed familiarity with the weapon.
The young assayer had no holster to his belt, seemingly no gun. His clean shaven jaws were clamped tight so that the muscles lumped here and there, and he fronted the unsympathetic crowd and the jeering bully with a courage that was partly born of desperation.
“Mining engineer!” read the bully. “Smart, ain’t he, for a curly-headed kid! Engineer? Peanut butcher ’ud suit better. Looks like a movie pitcher actor, don’t he? Mebbe he’s a vodeville performer. I’ll bet he is, at that. What’s yore speshulty, kid? Singin’ or dancin’. Or both.”
He flung a shot from the gun into the ground between the young man’s feet.
“Show us a few steps, you powder-faced dood! Mebbe we’ll let you stay in camp if you amuse us.”
Sandy and Sam had elbowed their way lightly through the ring and the former turned to the man beside whom he happened to stand.
“What’s the idea?” he asked.
“The young ’un good as told Roarin’ Russell he didn’t know what he was talkin’ about. Chap asked the kid’s opinion on a bit of ore an’ he give it. It didn’t suit Russell.”
“It didn’t, eh? Now, that’s too bad,” drawled Sandy. The other looked at him curiously. Sandy’s drawl was often provocative. Russell’s gun barked again.
“Dance, damn ye! An’ sing at the same time; blast you for a buttin’ in tenderfoot! Won’t, eh?”
The victim, game but despairing, flung a look of appeal about him. To give in meant to become the laughing-stock of the camp, to have its ribaldry follow him, to be laughed out of the camp, branded as a coward. Yet to resist was a challenge to death. The bully had been drinking, the gleam in his eyes was that of the killer, a man half insane from alcohol.
“Up with yore hands! Up with ’em, or I’ll shoot the knuckles off of ’em! I’ll make a jumpin’-jack of you
or I’ll shoot yore.…”
The first syllable of the intended volley of foulness was barely out when Sandy, stepping forward, touched the bully on the shoulder. Russell whirled as a bear whirls, gun lifting.
“Lady back here in the crowd,” said Sandy quietly.
For a second Russell gasped and stared and, as he stared, the cold hard look in Sandy’s eyes told him the manner of man who had interrupted him. But this man’s guns were in the holsters, Russell’s weapon was in hand though its muzzle was tilted skyward. The crowd, thickening, waited his next move. He had been stopped in his baiting. He saw no woman back of the big bulk of Mormon, keeping Miranda well away, not seeing what was going forward.
“To hell with the lady!” shouted Russell. At his back was only the unarmed assayer. This lean cold-eyed interferer was a hardy fool who needed a lesson. He swept down his gun, thumb to hammer. Two guns grew like magic in Sandy’s hands. Russell read a message in Sandy’s glance, he heard the gasp of the crowd. With his own gun first in the open the stranger had beaten him to the drop and fire. He felt the fan of the wing of death on his brow. His gun flew out of his fingers, wrenched away by the force of impact from Sandy’s bullet on its muzzle, low down, near the cylinder. Dazed, he watched it spinning away, his hand numb.
“Back up to that door, you! Back up!” Sandy’s voice was almost conversational but it was profoundly convincing. The bully obeyed him, standing at the door in the place of the assayer, who stepped aside, feeling a little sick at the stomach, Sam bracing him in friendly fashion by one elbow.
“I won’t shoot yore knuckles off,” said Sandy, “pervidin’ you keep yore fingers wide apaht, an’ don’t wiggle ’em. Spread ’em out against the wood, bully man!”
His face whitening from the ebb of blood to his cowardly heart, Roarin’ Russell opened his fingers wide, judging implicit obedience his greatest safety. Sandy did not move position, he hardly seemed to move wrist or finger as his guns spat fire, left and right, eight shots blending, eight bullets smashing their way through the door between the “V’s” of the bully’s fingers while the crowd held their breath for the exhibition.
