Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937)

by Oliver Strange

  “I promised not to,” she replied. “I was given what seemed to be a good reason.” With all his adroitness, he had hard work to hide his feelings. To have been baulked and nearly outwitted by a tool he had meant to use and throw aside made him writhe with rage. He promised himself that Snowy should pay—presently.

  “Well, never mind, we can win yet,” he smiled. “Come, Berg should have breakfast ready, and I’ll own to being hungry.” His good humour persisted when they returned to camp, and Lora—remembering his black mood but a few hours before—was scornfully amused. Snowy came sidling up, uncertain of his reception. Mary discerned his discomfort and took her own way to end it.

  “Morning, Uncle Phil,” she said.

  It was her usual greeting, but this time it made the old man blink. He hesitated for a bare instant, and then. “Mornin’, my dear,” he returned huskily. Paul’s frown was hut momentary.

  “Good news, girls,” he announced. “We take the trail today.”

  “To Deadwood?” Lora inquired.

  “No, to El Dorado—the Land of Gold. Oh, it isn’t far. We just travel up this creek till we reach a belt of trees, find an overhanging point of rock which moves, and there we are. Do you remember it—Ducane?” Snowy received the gibe apathetically. “Can’t say I do,” he mumbled.

  “Feller in Californy told me of a swingin’ stone. a big chunk, one man could start rockin’ but twenty couldn’t tip her over. I reckoned he was lyin’. Never heard o’ the like in these parts.”

  “You’re going to see one, and work under the shadow of it, digging dust—for me,” Paul said harshly. “And if you try to steal any I’ll have you whipped.”

  “Mister Lesurge does not mean that, Uncle Phil,” Mary said quietly. “If we have good fortune, you will share.” Paul was quick to retrieve his error. “Of course I was only joking,” he protested, but his laugh did not ring true.

  While the preparations for departure were being made, Mary contrived to get the prospector alone.

  “What is your real name, Uncle Phil?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I disremember—I’ve been ‘Snowy’ so long. Yo’re mighty good to me, Mary, seein’ how I’ve deceived you. There didn’t seem much harm the way Paul put it, an’ I was meanin’ to play straight with you.” Her eyes were gentle. “I don’t doubt that, and my real uncle could not have been more kind. But how did you know so much about my father?”

  “Fagan wised up Paul, an’ he told me,” Snowy confessed, and then, “Where did Fagan git his facts?”

  “I cannot say. He travelled nearly all the way with me when I came to Wayside, but I told him nothing.”

  “So he might ‘a’ oeen around when yore father …” Snowy did not finish.

  “It is possible,” she admitted, and stared at him. “You don’t think—”

  “I do—times; you’d be s’prised,” he said. “An’ Mary that fella Lesurge ain’t fit to lick the mud off’n the boots o’ them two cowboys.” It was as though another man had spoken, and by the time amazement had given place to indignation, he was some yards distant.

  “Uncle Phil,” she called sharply.

  “I’m tellin’ you,” he answered, and scurried away.

  Later, as they followed the curves of the little creek, she put a question to Paul:

  “You expect to find Green at this place we’re going to?”

  “Yes, and probably his friend Mason, who declined to join my party.”

  “But why should Green have come, since he knew where o find the mine?”

  “That’s his damned cleverness. If he could persuade us that the ravine was the genuine article, we go back to Deadwood in disgust, leaving him a clear field, an artful scheme which, thanks to you, we shall defeat.” The praise did not please her—she was dubious about the part she’ had played, and almost regretting the search for her uncle and his elusive fortune. It had been a shock to discover that the quaint, gentle old man was a fraud and she could not yet believe that he had meant ill to her. It gave her a feeling of lonely helplessness which the presence of Paul failed to eradicate.

  She found herself hoping first that Gerry would be there, and then that he would not.

  The fugitives found the company at the Rocking Stone busy as beavers, but they gathered round eagerly to hear the news, for the puncher’s early appearance, with a companion, told them something had happened. The story did not take long.

  “So here we are,” Sudden concluded. “Husky figures to throw in with us.” The big miner shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Gimme a shovel,” he said. “One week here an’ I’ll go back an’ stand Deadwood on its head.”

  “We won’t have a week,” Sudden warned. “I reckon that right now they’re on the way.”

  “Yu think they’ll find us?” Gerry asked.

  “Shorely, the girl will weaken—Lesurge has a medicine tongue with women”—he saw the boy wince—“an’ she’s fond o’ Snowy, even though he ain’t what she thought.”

  “Never could understan’ her bein’ kin’ to that of scatterbrain,” Gerry said.

  “Snowy is straight,” Sudden told him. “Don’t yu gamble too much on his bein’ loco neither.” He spoke to Husky. “Yu gotta remember that this claim belongs to Miss Ducane; we’re on’y workin’ it for her.”

  “What’s yore plan?” Rogers asked the puncher.

  “Hide the hosses outside an’ put a man at the entrance,” Sudden said. He studied the long, steep slope at the top of which the giant stone frowned down upon them, direful, menacing.

  “Cuss it, if they get up there they can pepper us like rats in a pit.” However, short of abandoning the mine, which none of them even thought of, there was nothing else to be done. The horses were removed to a grassy hollow hedged in by thick, thorny scrub, and Bowman, armed with a rifle, was stationed at the entrance. The others went on with the work of gathering the wealth which for centuries had lain there undisturbed. Sudden and Gerry were together.

  “How much o’ this mine will Snowy an’ Miss Ducane get if Lesurge can put his dirty paws on it?” the latter asked presently.

  “Six foot each to lie in, same as the rest of us,” was the grim reply. “An’ he’ll wash the dust out first.”

  “But he wouldn’t kill the girl.”

  “Mebbe not—at once, but she’d come to wishin’ he had.” The young man’s spade rasped fiercely against the rock floor. “We’re as strong as they are. Why not go an’ clean ‘em up?”

  “He holds the trump card—Miss Ducane. If we could steal her away—but she wouldn’t come.”

  “Yu tellin’ me she’s in love with that—skunk?” Gerry demanded hotly.

  “Whatever has skunks done to yu?” Sudden asked satirically. “Mebbe she thinks she is.

  Yu see, he’s got all the points that appeal to a girl, an’ he don’t run around with outlaws.”

  “No, Fagan and company bein’ highly respectable members o’ the community,” the boy sneered.

  “But he on’y employs ‘em Gerry, which is some different,” Sudden said with quizzical gravity. “Now if yu paid me to do yore killin’ … ”

  “Aw, go to hell,” was the inelegant rejoinder.

  The afternoon was waning when they got the first intimation of the enemy’s presence, and a sad one it was. Rogers had gone to relieve the sentinel, only to come back on the run, his face drawn with rage and grief.

  “Tom’s dead,” he cried. “God damn the murderin’ rats.” In horrified silence they followed him. There, just outside the opening, Bowman lay sprawled face downward, his hands full of rubble gripped in a last agony. An ugly red stain below the neck of his shirt betrayed the manner of his passing. Sudden knelt beside the body.

  “Stabbed from behind,” he said. “Never had a chance. What’s that?” He pointed to a level space on the cliff-wall, just above the dead man’s head. Scratched there in rude print were the words, “Evens up for Husky.” Sudden stood, his face rigid with grief; he had brought thi
s man to his death. “That settles it,” he said. “We’ll move the camp here an’ have two of us in it allatime; we mustn’t be catched again.” The others nodded agreement. Familiar as they all were with violence, the swiftness of the tragedy had stunned them. In grim silence they carried their comrade away, and later laid him to rest in a corner of the basin. As they piled rocks over the grave, Rogers, who had known him long, spoke for them all:

  “I’d never ask for a better pardner than Tom.”

  Determined not to be misled again, Lesurge kept as close as possible to the creek. This involved a circuitous route and the negotiation of many thickets and patches of scrub, lengthening the journey considerably. It was Paul himself who first descried the belt of pines with the conical rock cleaving the sky above them.

  On the verge of the pines, near where the stream emerged, Paul decided to camp. Calling Hank aside, he gave him certain directions, and with a nod of comprehension, the fellow took his rifle and vanished, on foot, into the deep shadow of the trees. The others lighted two fires, at a little distance apart, unloaded the packs, and made preparations for spending the night there. It was more than an hour before Hank reappeared striding swiftly.

  “Well?” he said, as the messenger came to where he was pacing up and down, alone.

  “You were right, boss, they’re there, shore enough,” was the reply. “An’ by the way they’re pitchin’ in the stuff’s there too. It’s a hole in the rocks—like a big holler tooth, an’ I couldn’t see but the one way in.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Seven—leastways, there was seven.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, one was watchin’ an’ I sorta subtracted him, just to level up for Husky.” The evil smirk of satisfaction with which he admitted the murder wilted as he read his employer’s expression. “You clumsy clown,” Paul rasped. “That puts them on their guard and makes it impossible for us to get in.”

  “I had to abolish him,” Hank said sullenly. “Couldn’t ‘a’ seen nothin’ no other way; that hole is walled all round.”

  “The more reason for leaving the opening available,” Lesurge snarled. “In the dark, with only one man to deal with, we could have surprised and overpowered them while they slept. Was Green there?”

  “Yeah, an’ his bunkie, Mason, an’ Jacob.”

  “Jacob? What’s he doing there?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Hank replied impudently, and got a black look, which disturbed him not at all; he was hitting back to recover his self-respect.

  Lesurge dismissed him with a gesture and joined the women, who, with Snowy, were sitting by one of the fires. The old man eyed him furtively as he approached.

  “It is as I expected,” he informed them. “Green, Mason, and five—four others are in possession of your property, Mary, and shifting them is not going to be easy.” The girl looked troubled. “Would it not be possible to make some arrangement—to share?” she asked. “If the mine is as rich as we believe, there should be enough for all.”

  “No, by God!” Paul exploded. “These fellows are thieves and I will not”—he paused and finished less violently—“allow you to be robbed.”

  “I would rather lose all than have bloodshed,” Mary replied earnestly.

  “A very proper sentiment—for a woman,” he told her, and the faint sneer brought the colour to her cheeks. “I should regard myself as less than a man, however, if I let you do so.

  Leave it to me my dear; I shall find a way to deal with these claim-jumpers.” He looked hard at Snowy. “No one is to leave camp; it is not safe.”

  “Do you think Green and his friends would shoot women?” Lora asked superciliously.

  “Never mind what I think—I’m giving orders,” he said sharply.

  Her eyes followed him as he stalked away. “Charming person, my dear brother,” she commented, “and so concerned about your interests.”

  “You don’t seem to have much sisterly affection,” Mary said.

  “Sisterly affection?” Lora echoed vehemently. “Why—I hate him. He’s ” She stopped suddenly, lips shut like a vice, got up, and walked to the tent, leaving her companion dumbfounded.

  Chapter XXII

  Paul Lesurge was taking a walk. Heading straight through the sun-spangled strip of firs, he came to a well nigh vertical barrier of cliff which only a monkey or a cat could hope to climb.

  Being a different kind of beast, he did not attempt it, but made his way westwards along the base of the obstacle. Soon, as he had expected, the ground rose, and as the trees became smaller and fewer, he could see above and immediately before him, the great boulder which Philip Ducane had called the Rocking Stone, ponderous, menacing, seeming about to crash down upon him.

  He toiled on; climbing was hard work, for there was no break and debris from the hill-top made care necessary. At length he reached the level of the cliff-wall, passed it but a few paces, and turning, beheld—the mine.

  The first point which struck him was the aptness of Hank’s simile; a big, hollow tooth it was, the jagged ends of the shell fringed with foliage, save where a steep, boulder-strewn slant mounted to the threatening bulk of the Rolling Stone. On the sand and rubble floor of the hollow, only a few hundred feet below, he could see four men at work—the other two were doubtless guarding the entrance. His thin lips curled in a wolfish snarl.

  “Make the most of your time,” he muttered. “Tomorrow, you’ll hear from me.”

  He studied the place where he stood; it was going to be easier than he had dared to hope.

  There were stones behind which marksmen might shelter and the hollow was devoid of cover; two or three men with rifles could deal death at their leisure. One only of the enemy he feared—that damned cowpuncher, and concerning him he had a plan.

  He had learned all he wished but did not go. The great stone had a fascination and he determined to examine it. A detour enabled him to make the ascent unobserved and presently he stood behind the monster monolith. It was larger than he had supposed, a huge pear-shaped chunk of granite, the curved base resting upon a smooth rock platform. Some fantastic freak of Nature had flung it there, so poised a push seemed sufficient to dislodge it, a task the tempests of untold centuries had failed to achieve. What had Snowy said of the one in California? “One man could start her rockin’ but twenty couldn’t tip her over.” For a moment he hesitated and then hurled his weight against the stone. Did it move? He could not say, but made no further trial.

  A narrow ledge just below on the other and more precipitous side of the hill caught his eye. It was no more than a track but it seemed to offer an easier means of descent into the maze of savage but majestic country which stretched to the horizon. He clambered down and stood gazing into the abyss. Far below was a black floor of pine-trees moving in the breeze like the surface of a restless sea. Somehow the place oppressed him, the big stone seemed to hover above like a bird of ill omen, the glare of the descending sun was blood-red, there was an air of death.

  With an effort he shook the feeling off. He was still young, wealth almost unbounded lay within his grasp, and with wealth, wisely used, a clever man could accomplish anything.

  “Governor of Dakota.” He murmured the words as he turned again towards the camp.

  By the time he reached it, dusk was approaching. The men were squatting round their fire, feeding and whispering together; they took no notice of him as he passed. The prospector and Mary were conversing near the tent, while Lora paced restlessly to and fro. He went to her.

  “I want your help,” he said shortly.

  In the half light her face showed wan. “I’m tired of the whole rotten business,” she replied. “I’ll do no more.” She saw his jaw tighten. “Are you going to fail me on the eve of success?” he asked. “Don’t you realize that it means wealth and ease for the rest of our lives?”

  Ever since her conversation with Mary she had been weighing the project of desertion to the other camp, and now the opportunity had
been forced upon her. She knew that the message she was bearing was false—a hidden motive in it—and she had no intention of persuading Green to accede.

  “He must take me with him—I won’t go back,” she panted, as she stumbled on through the gloom.

  Save for the furtive movements of four-footed denizens of the undergrowth the silence was profound. Then came the weird screech of an owl and she shook with fright. The black bulk of the cliff loomed up before her and she turned to the left, leaving the trickle of water which had been her guide; the soft gurgle of it over the stones had been some sort of company. She had gone but a few paces when a gruff voice spoke:

  “Who’s there? Speak up sharp or I’ll shoot.” With a sigh of relief she gave her name and business. She heard men speaking in tones too low for her to distinguish what they said, and then the tall figure of the cowboy came striding out of the darkness. There was light enough for him to see that she was alone, and he slipped his drawn gun into the holster.

  “What brings you here?” he asked bluntly.

  “I must speak with you,” she said, “and—I don’t want your friends to hear.” She moved away, and when he hesitated, added, “you need not doubt; there is no one with me.” The puncher followed her. “I ain’t naturally nervous,” he said ironically, “but one of us was knifed a few hours back.”

  “My God!” she breathed. “Then it was—Hank. He was sent to spy, and Paul was angry when he returned.”

  “The killin’ interfered with his plan, I s’pose,” Sudden said bitterly. “Does he know yo’re here?”

  “He sent me,” Lora replied, and gave the reason.

  She could not see the man’s face but knew what it would have told her—mocking contempt for one who could make such an offer after the butchery of Bowman. The hard voice held out no hope.

  “Did he think I’d fall for that?”

  “I told him I could persuade you, but I’m not going to try— I know he’s lying. I wanted to come—on my own account. Jim, I am going mad. I dare not go back. For the love of God let me stay with you.” The passionate appeal rang true but left him unmoved, doubting. Was it the outcome of real terror, or one of the many moods she was mistress of? He could not decide but—