“We’ll cut across so’s nobody’ll see us,” Wong heard him say. “We’ll rest in the cabin a few hours, and get everything ready. The dust and nuggets we’ve taken and got hid—we’d better not carry it on us. We’ll pack the burro with our stuff, and put the dust and nuggets inside a flour sack. It’ll look like we’re just quittin’ the diggin’s.”
“What about this last haul?” one of the men asked.
“Accordin’ to what we heard, them Chinese and Madison have struck it rich. Ought to have fat pokes ready for us. We’ll go down the canyon and hit the Chinese first, then go on and clean up Madison. I want to handle him! If he’s got gold hid, we’ll shore make him show us where it is. We’ll grab that girl of his and threaten to hurt her if he don’t. That’ll make him talk.”
Wong shivered at that. He didn’t want these men to hurt Elsie Madison, who was always kind to him and old Lee, and who baked cookies. He didn’t want them even to affront her. He decided he would listen and hear all he could of their plans.
“If Knowles tries to get ahead of us, we must beat him to it,” Gardon said. “It’d be rich if we got the dust and nuggets and Knowles got blamed for it and him and his men got strung up. Serve ’em right!”
“How about the Vigilantes?” one of the men asked.
“That’s troublin’ me some,” Chuck Gardon admitted. “We’ve got to be mighty careful. If they catch us at it, they’ll either fill us full of lead or make us stretch rope. I ain’t hankerin’ for either.”
“Yuh reckon the Vigilantes are there already, Chuck?” the other man asked.
“Mebbe. I’ll bet they’ve been slippin’ up the Yuba a few at a time since they posted that sign in Marysville. It’s my idea they’ll gather there and be in ambush. We’ve got to smell ’em out.”
They were not traveling so fast, off the trail, and since they had left Marysville a little before daylight, Wong knew it would be dusk when they reached the canyon. Now that daylight had come, he was compelled to be careful. If the men ahead saw and recognized him, and thought he was spying on them, they might resort to any kind of violence.
And Wong was compelled now to follow them, for he was utterly lost. Since leaving the regular trail, they had been going through ravines and up slopes. Chuck Gardon evidently was following a path he knew, one he had used before. But Wong did not know it.
To return to the regular trail and follow that would mean loss of too much time. If he dropped back and followed their tracks, he would come to the canyon finally and could go home. Cautiously he watched ahead, to be sure that while ascending some hill they would not look back and see him. Their boot tracks in the soft earth were easy to follow.
Wong realized they were not traveling as fast as he had been, going to Marysville from the canyon, and this route was longer. And it had taken him from dawn until dusk to make the trip. So he knew it would be night before the canyon was reached.
The men ahead stopped in the middle of the day to rest, and Wong was almost discovered as he approached them, scanning the ground for tracks. He hid behind some brush until they started on again. He saw them eating cold food, and knew the gnawing of hunger, for he had brought none himself.
When daylight faded, Wong went faster and got behind them as close as he could and be safe. The wind was still blowing from them to him, and his sandals made no noise. He could hear their boots crunching gravel and striking against rocks, and followed them by sound.
There came a time when Wong could hear, from the distance, a sound he knew came from the rushing of the creek over rocks in the canyon. A glance at the stars told him it was almost midnight.
Just before dawn was the most auspicious hour, he knew, for shooting off the sacred firecrackers. He was eager to get home, awaken Lee Chung and go through the ceremony. After what he had heard, he knew there was no time to lose if the demons of disaster were to be driven away before Chuck Gardon and his men made their raid.
Wong shuffled on in the wake of Gardon and the others. They went through another long ravine, then began climbing among the rocks. The noise of the rushing water came nearer.
The moon was up now, and Wong had to be careful that he was not seen. The men ahead were talking again, and the wind carried their words to his ears.
“We’ll take a little rest, then get ready,” Gardon was saying. “Make up the burro’s packs and put the dust and nuggets among the stuff, like I said. Have a little snack to eat.”
Now they were working down among the rocks, and Wong had to follow them because there was no other way to go. They were descending to the floor of the canyon. Wong could see the whitewater below tumbling over the rocks in the moonlight.
And he realized that he was in a trap. Gardon and his two men were ahead of him, between him and Lee’s cabin. The canyon was narrow along here, and there was only one path, and the walls could not be scaled. To get out of the canyon and work his way around to the mouth of the creek would take hours, Wong knew.
Finally they came down to the path and went along it, the men ahead hurrying now. Wong dropped behind, shuffling cautiously over the rocky path. When the men ahead reached Gardon’s cabin, Wong went into hiding behind some rocks, to watch for an opportunity to pass the cabin and go on home.
They entered the cabin and lit candles, and one man emerged before Wong could make a move. The man built a fire, put on a coffeepot, and sliced bacon into a skillet. Through the open door of the cabin, Wong could see Chuck Gardon and the other man making up packs.
The burro smelled the smoke of the fire and came wandering up the path from below, heehawing a welcome. The odors of boiling coffee and broiling bacon almost upset Wong’s stomach because he was so hungry. He wished they would eat and all enter the cabin and close the door, so he could slip past.
The man at the fire called, and Gardon and the second man emerged and began eating.
“If Knowles and his men are intendin’ to raid, they’ll try it just before dawn,” Wong heard Gardon say. “We want to get down the canyon and hit them Chinese while they’re dopey with sleep, finish it there quick as we can, and go on down to Madison’s place.”
“How about the Vigilantes?” one of the men asked again.
“There’s a chance we’ll have to take. Mebbe they’re not out here yet. But, on account of this new strike, they may be. Mebbe they’re in ambush. If they are, I hope Knowles runs into ’em first.”
“Suppose we run into ’em, Chuck?”
“If so, there’s only one thing to do, and you both want to remember it. Drop everything and run. We’re the same as swingin’ at the end of ropes if we don’t.”
“If the dust and nuggets are in a pack on the burro—”
“We’ll take time to grab that stuff, then make a getaway. There’s a trail up the side of the canyon a quarter of a mile this side of the cabin them Chinese live in. We’ll use that, get over the hills, and back to Marysville. Mebbe folks’ll think we never left there. And we’ll get on to Frisco as fast as we can.”
They finished eating, but did not go into the cabin. Outside, by the fire, they were making the burro’s packs ready. Wong could not get past them unseen. There was no sort of cover between the cabin and the wall of the canyon. And the firelight, added to the light of the moon and reflecting from the rock walls, made it so light that even a shadow could have been seen drifting past.
Crouching behind the rocks, Wong tried to think of a way out of the trap. Instead, when he looked toward the cabin again, he found instead a new peril. The burro was wandering up the path directly toward Wong’s hiding place.
Wong crouched lower. He regretted now that he had made a friend of the burro by giving him sugar.
“Get that burro and bring the jackass back here!” Wong heard Chuck Gardon howl to one of the men.
The burro was coming on, and the man after him. Wong hugged the ground in the shadows. If they found him, he was done for, he thought. He had no weapon on him except a sharp knife.
But
the man after the burro did not suspect anything, evidently. He yelled at the burro, who trotted on toward Wong. Then the man ran, caught the burro and turned him back just in time. Wong began breathing normally again.
Beside the fire, the three men put on the burro’s pack frame and began packing it.
“Don’t forget that this flour sack holds the stuff,” Gardon told the others. “If we run into trouble, we’ll tell a yarn about our claim bein’ no good, and that we’re goin’ over to the American River and try our luck. Nobody’ll think of investigatin’ a flour sack. They’d expect us to be packin’ any gold we had ourselves.”
Wong prepared to make a wild dash if they all went into the cabin. They would be starting down the canyon soon, he knew, and he must get ahead of them and warn Lee and explode the sacred firecrackers to drive the demons of disaster away.
Finally, Gardon led the others into the cabin and closed the door. That gave Wong his chance. He left the protection of the rocks and began running, bending almost double, his worn sandals making but little noise, and the sound of the rushing water drowning that.
He came even with the fire, and the burro saw him and hee-hawed with evident delight. Wong sped past him and went on. The burro began following, no doubt thinking of sugar. Wong got to some rocks and dropped behind them just as Gardon opened the door.
“Catch that fool burro and fetch him back!” he called to one of his men. “He’s carryin’ the stuff! Somethin’ must have made him loco.”
Wong crouched in a state of terror until the man had caught the burro and led him back. Then he went on, keeping in the shadows. When he got around a curve in the canyon and was hidden from the sight of those at the cabin, he put on speed.
He reached home and shook Lee Chung awake. Gasping and panting, he poured out the story.
“We must shoot the sacred firecrackers,” Wong said. “They will drive away the demons.”
“I will hurry down to the Madison cabin,” Lee Chung told him, “and let him know about this, while you shoot the firecrackers. Some of the Vigilantes are here. They caught a man named Knowles early last night, and three men with him. They were sluice box robbers. Madison and the Vigilantes will come to help.”
“I thlink sacred firecracker maybe dlive demons away,” Wong declared, remembering to speak “American.”
Lee Chung hurried down the canyon trail. Wong washed his hands to purify them, unpacked the firecrackers, and got them ready. He muttered certain incantations. He strung out one string of the firecrackers, ignited a sulphur match, and lit the end of the string.
The firecrackers were good and loud, and the explosions echoed among the rocks. Wong began shouting his incantation in a shrill voice, determined to frighten the demons away. He ran into the cabin and got a huge pistol Lee kept there, but which he had never used on the thieves because they had always caught him asleep. Running outside again, Wong fired the pistol. It made a deafening roar among the rocks.
Wong would have been startled then if he could have seen what was happening and heard what was being said a short distance up the canyon.
Gardon and his men, the burro following, had neared the cabin on Lee’s claim. They had pulled up neck handkerchiefs for masks. Suddenly, the night erupted. Explosion blasted and roared along the rocky canyon walls. Flashes of flame were reflected on the rocks.
“Gunfire!” one of the men said.
“Knowles got there ahead of us, and the Vigilantes are after him and his gang!” the second added.
They heard shrill yelling, and the thunderous explosion as Wong fired the old pistol. Gardon did not hesitate.
“Back!” he ordered. “Travel fast. They may come this way. Get up the trail to the top—it’s only a hundred yards back. Hit for Marysville. We don’t want any of this. Let Knowles have it!”
“The stuff on the burro—?” one questioned.
“Grab the flour sack and come on. Let the burro go. No time to lose!”
But the burro was gone already. The explosions and the flashes of fire were too much. He stampeded, running down the trail toward Lee’s cabin, bucking and kicking to get off the packs.
A rope broke as the burro neared the cabin. The flour sack holding the pokes of dust and nuggets flew off to one side. Some of the cooking utensils dropped off also.
Wong had just lit the second string of firecrackers. They began exploding. The burro turned and rushed back up the trail, went past Gardon and the men like a streak, and continued. The three let him go. They were scrambling up the trail frantically, to get out of the canyon and away.
Lee Chung came back with Madison and several grim-looking men who were heavily armed.
Wong was dancing around excitedly.
“Velly loud sacred firecracker,” he told them. “I think they drive demons of disaster away.”
“You stay here with Wong, Lee,” Madison instructed. He turned to the men with him. “We’ll go on up the canyon and see if Gardon and his two men are in their cabin. If they are, we’ll drive ’em out of the district.”
They started on their futile errand, for Gardon and his men at that moment had reached the top of the canyon wall and were on their way to Marysville.
Wong was tired and hungry, but happy. Lee Chung started to build a fire to cook food. Wong wandered a short distance up the trail, listening to the sounds in the canyon.
But soon he came rushing back, holding a flour sack and shouting for Lee Chung.
“Look!” he cried. “Find this beside trail. Here is the poke they stole from you. Here is the little package of nuggets. Here is more gold in little sacks. Not only did the sacred firecrackers drive away the demons of disaster, but the gods make the burro drop this sack at our feet, and we have the stolen gold and some extra. Perhaps that is because I gave the burro sugar. The gods like men who are kind to animals.”
“The gods at times have what seem to us to be strange ways,” Lee Chung told him, “but they are always profitable. Come and eat your rice and pork and drink your tea.”
WAR ON BEAR CREEK, by Robert E. Howard
Pap dug the nineteenth buckshot out of my shoulder and said, “Pigs is more disturbin’ to the peace of a community than scandal, divorce, and corn licker put together. And,” says pap, pausing to strop his bowie on my scalp where the hair was all burnt off, “when the pig is a razorback hawg, and is mixed up with a lady schoolteacher, a English tenderfoot, and a passle of bloodthirsty relatives, the result is appallin’ for a peaceable man to behold. Hold still till John gits yore ear sewed back on.”
Pap was right. I warn’t to blame for what happened. Breaking Joel Gordon’s laig was a mistake, and Erath Elkins is a liar when he says I caved in them five ribs of his’n plumb on purpose. If Uncle Jeppard Grimes had been tending to his own business he wouldn’t have got the seat of his britches filled with bird-shot, and I don’t figger it was my fault that cousin Bill Kirby’s cabin got burned down. And I don’t take no blame for Jim Gordon’s ear which Jack Grimes shot off, neither. I figger everybody was more to blame than I was, and I stand ready to wipe up the earth with anybody which disagrees with me.
But it was that derned razorback hawg of Uncle Jeppard Grimes’ which started the whole mess.
It begun when that there tenderfoot come riding up the trail with Tunk Willoughby, from War Paint. Tunk ain’t got no more sense than the law allows, but he shore showed good jedgement that time, because having delivered his charge to his destination, he didn’t tarry. He merely handed me a note, and p’inted dumbly at the tenderfoot, whilst holding his hat reverently in his hand meanwhile.
“What you mean by that there gesture?” I ast him rather irritably, and he said: “I doffs my sombrero in respect to the departed. Bringin’ a specimen like that onto Bear Creek is just like heavin’ a jackrabbit to a pack of starvin’ loboes.”
He hove a sigh and shook his head, and put his hat back on. “Rassle a cat in pieces,” he says, gathering up the reins.
“What the hell are you t
alkin’ about?” I demanded.
“That’s Latin,” he said. “It means rest in peace.”
And with that he dusted it down the trail and left me alone with the tenderfoot which all the time was setting his cayuse and looking at me like I was a curiosity or something.
I called my sister Ouachita to come read that there note for me, which she did and it run as follows:
Dere Breckinridge:
This will interjuice Mr. J. Pembroke Pemberton a English sportsman which I met in Frisco recent. He was disapinted because he hadn’t found no adventures in America and was fixin to go to Aferker to shoot liuns and elerfants but I perswaded him to come with me because I knowed he would find more hell on Bear Creek in a week than he would find in a yere in Aferker or any other place. But the very day we hit War Paint I run into a old ackwaintance from Texas I will not speak no harm of the ded but I wish the son of a buzzard had shot me somewheres besides in my left laig which already had three slugs in it which I never could get cut out. Anyway I am lade up and not able to come on to Bear Creek with J. Pembroke Pemberton. I am dependin on you to show him some good bear huntin and other excitement and pertect him from yore relatives I know what a awful responsibility I am puttin on you but I am askin’ this as yore frend, William Harrison Glanton. Esqy.
I looked J. Pembroke over. He was a medium sized young feller and looked kinda soft in spots. He had yaller hair and very pink cheeks like a gal; and he had on whip-cord britches and tan riding boots which was the first I ever seen. And he had on a funny kinda coat with pockets and a belt which he called a shooting jacket, and a big hat like a mushroom made outa cork with a red ribbon around it. And he had a pack-horse loaded with all kinds of plunder, and four or five different kinds of shotguns and rifles.
“So yo’re J. Pembroke,” I says, and he says, “Oh, rahther! And you, no doubt, are the person Mr. Glanton described to me, Breckinridge Elkins?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Light and come in. We got b’ar meat and honey for supper.”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 31
