by Zane Grey
In the afternoons he went down into camp to strengthen the association he had made, to buy claims, and to gamble. Upon his return, Joan, peeping through a crack between the boards, could always tell whether he had been gambling, whether he had won or lost.
Most of the evenings he remained in his cabin that after dark became a place of mysterious and stealthy action. The members of his legion visited him, sometimes alone, never more than two together. Joan could hear them slipping in at the hidden aperture in the back of the cabin; she could hear the low voices, but seldom what was said; she could hear those night prowlers as they departed. Afterward, Kells would have the lights lit, and then Joan could see into the cabin. Was that dark haggard man Kells? She saw him take little buckskin sacks full of gold dust and hide them under the floor. Then he would pace the room in his old familiar manner, like a caged tiger. Later his mood usually changed with the advent of Wood and Pearce and Smith and Cleve, who took turns at guard and going down into camp. Then Kells would join them in a friendly game for small stakes. Gambler though he was, he refused to allow any game there that might lead to heavy wagering. From the talk sometimes, Joan learned that he played for exceedingly large stakes with gamblers and prosperous miners, usually with the same result—a loss. Sometimes he won, however, and then he would crow to Pearce and Smith, and delight in telling them how cunningly he had played.
Jim Cleve had his bed up under the bulge of bluff, in a sheltered nook. Kells had appeared to like this idea, for some reason relative to his scout system, which he did not explain. And Cleve was happy about it because this arrangement left him absolutely free to have his nightly rendezvous with Joan at her window, sometimes between dark and midnight. Her bed was right under the window. If awake, she could rest on her knees and look out, and, if she was asleep, he could thrust a slender stick between the boards to awaken her. But the fact was that Joan lived for these stolen meetings and unless he could not come by until very late she waited, wide-eyed and listening for him. Then, besides, as long as Kells was stirring in the cabin, she spent her time spying on him.
Jim Cleve had gone to an unfrequented part of the gulch for no particular reason and here he had located his claim. The very first day he struck gold, and Kells more for advertisement than for any other motive had his men stake out a number of claims near Cleve’s, and bought them. Then they had a little field of their own. All found the rich pay dirt, but it was Cleve to whom the goddess of fortune turned her bright face. As he had been lucky at cards, so he was lucky at digging. His claim paid big returns. Kells spread the news. And that part of the gulch saw a rush of miners.
Every night Joan had her whispered hour with Cleve, and each succeeding one was the sweeter. Jim had become a victim of the gold fever. But having Joan to steady him, he did not lose his head. If he gambled, it was to help out with his part. He was generous to his comrades. He pretended to drink, but did not drink at all. Jim seemed to regard his good fortune as Joan’s, also. He believed, if he struck it rich, he could buy his sweetheart’s freedom. He claimed that Kells was drunk for gold to gamble away. Joan let Jim talk, but she coaxed him and persuaded him to follow a certain line of behavior; she planned for him, she thought for him, she influenced him to hide the greater part of his gold dust, and let it be known that he wore no gold belt. She had a growing fear that Jim’s success was likely to develop a temper in him inimical to the cool waiting tolerant policy needed to outwit Kells in the end. It seemed the more gold Jim acquired, the more passionate he became, the more he importuned Joan, the more he hated Kells. Gold had gotten into his blood, and it was Joan’s task to keep him sane. Naturally she gained more by yielding herself to Jim’s caresses than by any direct advice or admonishment. It was her love that held Jim in check.
One night the instant their hands met Joan knew that Jim was greatly excited or perturbed.
“Joan,” he whispered thrillingly, with his lips at her ear. “I’ve made myself solid with Kells. Oh, the luck of it.”
“Tell me,” whispered Joan, and she leaned against those lips.
“It was early tonight at the Nugget. I dropped in as usual. Kells was playing faro again with that gambler they call Flash. He’s won a lot of Kells’s gold . . . a crooked gambler. I looked on. And some of the gang was there, Pearce, Blicky, Handy Oliver, and, of course, Gulden, but all separated. Kells was losing and sore. But he was game. All at once he caught Flash in a crooked trick and he yelled in a rage. He sure had the gang and everybody else looking. I expected . . . and so did all the gang . . . to see Kells pull his gun. But strange how gambling affects him. He only cursed Flash . . . called him right. You know that’s about as bad as death to a professional gambler in a place like Alder Creek. Flash threw a Derringer on Kells. He had it up his sleeve. He meant to kill Kells. And Kells had no chance. But Flash, having the drop, took time to talk, to make his bluff go strong with the crowd. And that’s where he made a mistake. I jumped and knocked the gun out of his hand. It went off . . . burned my wrist. Then I slugged Flash good . . . he didn’t get up. Kells called the crowd around and, showing the cards as they lay, coolly proved that Flash was what everybody suspected. Then Kells said to me . . . I’ll never forget how he looked . . . ‘Youngster, he meant to do for me. I never thought of my gun. You see. I’ll kill him the next time we meet. I’ve owed my life to men before. I never forget. You stood pat with me before . . . and now you’re ace-high!’ ”
“Was it fair of you?” asked Joan.
“Yes. Flash is a crooked gambler. I’d rather be a bandit. Besides, all’s fair in love. And I was thinking of you when I saved Kells.”
“Flash will be looking for you,” said Joan fearfully.
“Likely. And if he finds me, he wants to be quick. But Kells will drive him out of camp or kill him. I tell you, Joan, Kells is the biggest man in Alder Creek. There’s talk of office . . . a mayor and all that . . . and, if the miners can forget gold long enough, they’ll elect Kells. But the riff-raff, these bloodsuckers who live off the miners, they’d rather not have any office in Alder Creek.”
On another night, Cleve in serious and somber mood talked about the Border Legion and its mysterious workings. The name had found prominence, no one knew how, and Alder Creek knew no more peaceful sleep. This legion was supposed to consist of a strange secret band of unknown bandits and road agents, drawing its members from all that wild and trackless region called the border. Rumor gave it a leader of cunning and ruthless nature. It operated all over the country at the same time, and must have been composed of numerous smaller bands, impossible to detect because its victims never lived to tell how or by whom they had been robbed. This legion worked slowly and in the dark. It did not bother to rob for little gain. It had strange and unerring information of large quantities of gold dust. Two prospectors going out on the Bannack road, packing fifty pounds of gold, were found shot to pieces. A miner named Black, who would not trust his gold to the stage express, and who left Alder Creek against advice, was never seen or heard of again. Four other miners of the camp, known to carry considerable gold, were robbed and killed at night on their way to their cabins. Another was found dead in his bed. Robbers had crept to his tent, slashed the canvas, murdered him while he slept, and made off with his belt of gold.
An evil day of blood had fallen upon Alder Creek. There were terrible and implacable men in the midst of the miners, by day at honest toil learning who had gold, and murdering by night. The camp had never been united, but this dread fact disrupted any possible unity. Every man, every little group of men, distrusted the others, watched and spied and lay awake at night. But the robberies continued, one every few days, and each one left no trace. For dead men could not talk.
Thus was ushered in at Alder Creek a regime of wildness that had no parallel in the earlier days of 1849 and 1851. Men frenzied by the possession of gold, or greed for it, responded to the wildness of that time and took their cue from this deadly and mysterious Border Legion. The gold lust created its own
blood lust. Daily the population of Alder Creek grew in new gold-seekers. And its dark records kept pace. With distrust came suspicion and with suspicion came fear and with fear came hate,—and these, in already distorted minds, inflamed a hell so that the most primitive passions of mankind found outlet and held sway. The operations of the Border Legion were lost in deeds done in the gambling dens, in the saloons, and on the street in broad day. Men fought for no other reason than that the incentive was in the charged air. Men were shot at gaming tables—and the game went on. Men were killed in the dance halls, dragged out, marking a line of blood on the rude floor—and the dance went on. Still the pursuit of gold went on, more frenzied than ever, and still the greater and richer claims were struck. The price of gold soared and the commodities of life were almost beyond the dreams of avarice. It was a time in which the worst of human nature stalked forth, hydro-headed and deaf, roaring for gold, spitting fire, and shedding blood. It was a time when gold and fire and blood were one. It was a time when a horde of men from every class and nation, of all ages and characters, met on a field where motives and ambitions and faiths and traits merged into one mad instinct of gain. It was worse than the time of the medieval crimes of religion; it made war seem a brave and honorable thing; it robbed mankind of that splendid and noble trait, always seen in shipwrecked men or those hopelessly lost in the barren north, the divine will not to retrograde to the savage. It was a time, for all it enriched the world with yellow treasure, when might was right, when men were hopeless, when death stalked rampant. The sun rose gold and it set red. It was the hour of gold!
One afternoon late, while Joan was half dreaming, half dozing the hours away, she was thoroughly aroused by the tramp of boots and loud voices of excited men. Joan slipped to the peephole in the partition. Bate Wood had raised a warning hand to Kells, who stood, facing the door. Red Pearce came bursting in, wild-eyed and violent. Joan imagined he was about to cry out that Kells had been betrayed.
“Kells, have you . . . heard?” he panted.
“Not so loud, you . . . ,” replied Kells coolly. “My name’s Blight. Who’s with you?”
“Only Jesse an’ some of the gang. I couldn’t steer them away. But there’s nothin’ to fear.”
“What’s happened? What haven’t I heard?”
“The camp’s gone plumb ravin’ crazy. Jim Cleve found the biggest nugget ever dug in Idaho! Thirty pounds!”
Kells seemed suddenly to inflame, to blaze with white passion.
“Good for Jim!” he yelled ringingly. He could scarcely have been more elated if he had made the strike himself.
Jesse Smith came stamping in, with a crowd elbowing their way behind him. Joan had a start of the old panic at sight of Gulden. For once the giant was not slow or indifferent. His big eyes glared. He brought back to Joan the sickening sense of the brute strength of his massive presence. Some of his cronies were with him. For the rest there were Blicky and Handy Oliver and Chick Williams. The whole group bore resemblance to a pack of wolves about to leap upon its prey. Yet, in each man, excepting Gulden, there was that striking aspect of exultation.
“Where’s Jim?” demanded Kells.
“He’s comin’ along,” replied Pearce. “He’s sure been runnin’ a gauntlet. His strike stopped work in the diggin’s. What do you think of that, Kells? The news spread like smoke before wind. Every last man in camp has jest got to see that lump of gold.”
“Maybe I don’t want to see it!” exclaimed Kells. “A thirty pounder! I heard of one once, sixty pounds, but I never saw it. You can’t believe till you see.”
“Jim’s comin’ up the road now,” said one of the men near the door. “Thet crowd hangs on. But I reckon he’s shakin’ them.”
“What’ll Cleve do with this nugget?” Gulden’s big voice, so powerful, yet feelingless, caused a momentary silence. The expression of many faces changed. Kells looked startled, then annoyed.
“Why, Gulden, that’s not my affair . . . or yours,” replied Kells. “Cleve dug it and it belongs to him.”
“Dug or stole . . . it’s all the same,” responded Gulden.
Kells threw up his hands as if it were useless and impossible to reason with this man.
Then the crowd surged around the door with shuffling boots and hoarse mingled greetings to Cleve, who presently came plunging in out of the mêlée. His face bore a flush of radiance; his eyes were like diamonds. Joan thrilled and thrilled at sight of him. He was beautiful. Yet there was about him a more striking wildness. He carried a gun in one hand and in the other an object wrapped in his scarf. He flung this upon the table in front of Kells. It made a heavy solid thump. The ends of the scarf flew aside, and there lay a magnificent nugget of gold, black and rusty in parts, but with a dull yellow glitter in others.
“Boss, what’ll you bet against that?” cried Cleve with exulting laugh. He was like a boy.
Kells reached for the nugget as if it were not an actual object, and, when his hands closed on it, he fondled it and weighed it and dug his nails into it and tasted it.
“My God!” he ejaculated in wondering ecstasy. Then this, and the excitement, and the obsession all changed into sincere gladness. “Jim, you’re born lucky. You, the youngster born unlucky in love! Why, you could buy any woman with this!”
“Could I? Find me one,” responded Cleve with swift boldness.
Kells laughed. “I don’t know any worth so much.” “What’ll I do with it?” queried Cleve. “Why, you fool youngster! Has it turned your head, too? What’d you do with the rest of your dust? You’ve certainly been striking it rich.”
“I spent it . . . lost it . . . lent it . . . gave some away and . . . saved a little.”
“Probably you’ll do the same with this. You’re a good fellow, Jim.”
“But this nugget means a lot of money. Between six and seven thousand dollars.”
“You won’t need advice how to spend it, even if it was a million. Tell me, Jim, how’d you strike it?”
“Funny about that,” replied Cleve. “Things were poor for several days. Dug off branches into my claim. One grew to be a deep hole in gravel, hard to dig. My claim was once the bed of a stream. Full of rocks that the water had rolled down once. This hole sort of haunted me. I’d leave it when my back got so sore I couldn’t bend. But always I’d return. I’d say there wasn’t a darned grain of gold in that gravel. Then like a fool I’d go back and dig for all I was worth. No chance of finding blue dirt from there! But I kept on. And today, when my pick hit what felt like a soft rock . . . I looked and saw the gleam of gold! You ought to have seen me claw out that nugget! I whooped and brought everybody around. The rest was a parade. Now I’m embarrassed by riches. What to do with it?”
“Wal, go back to Montana an’ make that fool girl sick,” suggested one of the men who had heard Jim’s fictitious story of himself.
“Dug or stole is all the same,” boomed the imperturbable Gulden.
Kells turned white with rage. Cleve swept a swift and shrewd glance at the giant.
“Sure, that’s my idea,” declared Cleve. “I’ll divide as . . . as we planned.”
“You’ll not do anything of the kind,” retorted Kells. “You dug for that gold and it’s yours.”
“Well, boss, then say a quarter share to you and the same to me . . . and divide the rest among the gang.”
“No!” exclaimed Kells violently.
Joan imagined that he was actuated as much by justice to Cleve as opposition to Gulden.
“Jim Cleve, you’re a square pard if I ever seen one,” declared Pearce admiringly. “An’ I’m here to say thet I wouldn’t hev a share of your nugget.”
“Nor me,” spoke up Jesse Smith.
“I pass, too,” said Chick Williams.
“Jim, if I was dyin’ fer a drink, I wouldn’t stand fer that deal,” added Blicky with a fine scorn.
These men, and others who spoke or signified their refusal, attested to the living truth that there was honor even among robber
s. But there was not the slightest suggestion of change in Gulden’s attitude or of those back of him.
“Share and share alike for me,” he muttered grimly with those great eyes upon the nugget.
Kells, with an agile bound, reached the table and pounded it with his fist, confronting the giant.
“The hell you say!” he hissed in dark passion. “You’ve gone too far, Gulden. Here’s where I call you! You don’t get a grain of that gold nugget. Jim’s worked like a dog. If he digs up a million, I’ll see he gets it all. Maybe you loafers haven’t a hunch what Jim’s done for you. He’s helped our big deal more than you or I. His honest work has made it easy for me to look honest. He’s supposed to be engaged to marry my daughter. That more than anything was a blind. It made my stand. And I tell you that stand is high in this camp. Go down there and swear Blight is Jack Kells! See what you get! That’s all. I’m dealing the cards in this game. And I wont have more out of you!”
