Sucatash’s eyes narrowed and his mottled hair seemed to bristle. He turned on De Launay.
“What’s he done?” he asked, with cold fury.
De Launay did not move. Solange answered dully.
“He is the man who—married me—when he was the man who had murdered my father!”
But Sucatash made no move toward the pistol. He merely gaped at her and at De Launay. His expression had changed from anger to stupidity and dazed incomprehension.
“What’s that? He murdered your father?”
“He is Louisiana!”
“He? Louisiana! I allowed he was an old-timer. Well, all I can say is—heaven’s delights!”
Solange put out her hand to the edge of the bunk as though she could not support herself longer unaided. Her eyes were half closed now.
“Will you kill him, monsieur? If you do, you may have—of me—anything—that you ask!”
The words were faltered out in utter weariness. For one instant De Launay’s eyes flickered toward her, but Sucatash had already sprung to her side and was easing her to a seat on the edge of the bunk. Her head drooped forward.
“Ma’am,” said Sucatash, earnestly, “you got me wrong. I can’t kill him—not for that.”
“Not for that?” she repeated, wonderingly.
“Never in the world! I thought he’d insulted you, and if he had I’d a taken a fall out of him if he was twenty Louisianas. But this here notion you got that he beefed your father—that’s all wrong! You can’t go to downin’ a man on no such notions as that!”
“Why not?” asked Solange, in a stifled voice.
“Because he never done it—that’s whatever. You’d never get over it, mad’mo’selle, if you done that and then found you was wrong! And you are wrong.”
Slowly, Solange dragged herself upright. She was listless, the lightness had gone out of her step. Without a word, she reached out and lifted her leather coat from the nail on which it hung. Then she dragged her leaden feet to the door. Sucatash silently followed her.
In the other room she spoke once.
“Will you saddle my horse for me, monsieur?”
“There ain’t no place for you to go, ma’am.”
“Nevertheless, I shall go. If you please——”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
She followed him to the door, putting on her coat. Outside, she sat down on a log and remained stonily oblivious as Sucatash hastily caught up several horses and dragged saddles and alforjas into position. The westering sun was getting low along the rim of the crater and he worked fast with the knowledge that night would soon be upon them. Inside the cabin he heard De Launay moving about. A moment later as he entered to gather Solange’s equipment, he saw the soldier seated at the rough table busy with paper and fountain pen.
As Sucatash went past him, carrying an armload of blankets and a tarpaulin, De Launay held out a yellow paper.
“She will want this,” he said, and then bent over his writing.
Again, when Sucatash came in for more stuff, De Launay stopped him. He held out the pen, indicating the sheet of paper spread upon the table.
“This needs two witnesses, I think, but one will have to serve. She is my wife, after all—but it will make it more certain. Will you sign it?”
Sucatash glanced hastily at the document, reading the opening words: “I, Louis Bienville de Launay, colonel and late general of division of the army of France, being of sound and disposing mind, do make, declare, and publish this my Last Will and Testament——”
His eye caught only one other phrase: “I give, bequeath, and devise to my dearly beloved wife, Solange——”
With an oath, Sucatash savagely dashed his signature where De Launay indicated, and then rushed out of the room. The soldier took another piece of paper and resumed his writing. When he had finished he folded the two sheets into an envelope and sealed it. Outside, Sucatash was heaving the lashings taut on the last packs.
De Launay came to the door and stood watching the final preparations. Solange still sat desolately on the log.
Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier’s side.
“Take this,” said De Launay, holding out the envelope. “Give it to her to-morrow. And—she needn’t worry about the mine—or Banker.”
“She’s not even thinkin’ about them!” growled Sucatash.
He turned and strode to his horse. In another moment they were riding rapidly toward the rim of the crater.
De Launay watched them for some time and then went into the cabin. He came out a moment later carrying saddle and bridle. On his thighs were now hanging holsters on both sides, and both were strapped down at the bottoms.
He caught and saddled his horse, taking his time to the operation. Then, searching the darkening surface of the crater wall, he found no trace of the two who had ridden away. But he busied himself in getting food and eating it. It was fully an hour after they had gone before he mounted and rode after them.
By this time Solange and Sucatash had reached the rim and were well on their way through the down timber. More by luck than any knowledge of the way, they managed to strike the game trail, and wound through the impeding snags, the cow-puncher taking the lead and the girl following listlessly in his wake. Before dark had come upon them they had gained the level bench and were riding toward the gulch which led into the cañon.
After a while Sucatash spoke. “Where you aimin’ to camp, ma’am?”
“I am going down to these miners,” she said flatly.
“But, mad’mo’selle, that camp ain’t no place for you. There ain’t no women there, most likely, and the men are sure to be a tough bunch. I wouldn’t like to let you go there.”
“I am going,” she answered. To his further remonstrances she interposed a stony silence.
He gave it up after a while. As though that were a signal, she became more loquacious.
“In a mining camp, one would suppose that the men, as you have said, are violent and fierce?”
“They’re sure likely to be some wolfish, ma’am,” he agreed. In hope that she would be deterred by exaggeration, he dwelt on the subject. “The gunmen and hoss thieves and tinhorn gamblers all come in on the rush. There’s a lot of them hobos and wobblies—reds and anarchists and such—floatin’ round the country, and they’re sure to be in on it, too. I reckon any of them would cut a throat or down a man for two bits in lead money. Then there’s the kind of women that follows a rush—the kind you wouldn’t want to be seen with even—and the men might allow you was the same kind if you come rackin’ in among ’em.”
Solange listened thoughtfully and even smiled bleakly.
“These men would kill, you say, for money?”
“For money, marbles or chalk,” said Sucatash. He was about to embellish this when she nodded with satisfaction.
“That is good,” she said. “And, if not for money, for a woman—one of that kind of woman—they would shoot a man?”
Sucatash blanched. “What are you drivin’ at, ma’am?”
“They will kill for me, for money—or if that is not enough—for a woman; such a woman as I am. Will they not, Monsieur Sucatash?”
“Kill who?”
He knew the answer, though, before she spoke: “Louisiana!”
Shocked, he ventured a feeble remonstrance.
“He’s your husband, ma’am!”
But this drove her to a wild outburst in startling contrast to her former quiescence.
“My husband! Yes, my husband who has defiled me as no other on earth could have soiled and degraded me! My husband! Oh, he shall be killed if I must sell myself body and soul to the man who shoots him down!”
Then she whirled on him.
“Monsieur Sucatash! You have said to me that you liked me. Maybe indeed, you have loved me
a little! Well, if you will kill that man for me—you may have me!”
Sucatash groaned, staring at her as though fascinated. She threw back her head, turning to him, her face upraised. The sweetly curved lips were half parted, showing little white teeth. On the satin cheeks a spot of pink showed. The lids were drooping over the deep eyes, veiling them, hiding all but a hint of the mystery and beauty behind them.
“Am I not worth a man’s life?” she murmured.
“You’re worth a dozen murders and any number of other crimes,” said Sucatash gruffly. He turned his head away. “But you got me wrong. If he was what you think, I’d smoke him up in a minute and you’d not owe me a thing. But, ma’am, I know better’n you do how you really feel. You think you want him killed—but you don’t.”
Solange abruptly straightened round and rode ahead without another word. Morosely, Sucatash followed.
They came into the cañon at last and turned downward toward the spot where camp had been pitched that day, which seemed so long ago, and yet was not yet a week in the past. Snow was falling, clouding the air with a baffling mist, but they could see, dotted everywhere along the sides of the cañon, the flickering fires where the miners had camped on their claims. Around them came the muffled voices of men, free with profanity. Here and there the shadow of a tent loomed up, or a more solid bulk spoke of roughly built shacks of logs and canvas. Faint laughter and, once or twice, the sound of loud quarreling was heard. It all seemed weirdly unreal and remote as though they rode through an alien, fourth dimensional world with which they had no connection. The snow crunched softly under the feet of the horses.
But as they progressed, the houses or shacks grew thicker until it appeared that they were traversing the rough semblance of a street. Mud sloshed under the hoofs of the horses instead of snow, and a black ribbon of it stretched ahead of them. Mistily on the sides loomed dimly lighted canvas walls or dark hulks of logs. The sound of voices was more frequent and insistent down here, though most of it seemed to come from some place ahead.
In the hope that she would push on through the camp Sucatash followed the girl. They came at last to a long, dim bulk, glowing with light from a height of about six feet and black below that level. From this place surged a raucous din of voices, cursing, singing and quarreling. A squeaky fiddle and a mandolin uttered dimly heard notes which were tossed about in the greater turmoil. Stamping feet made a continuous sound, curiously muffled.
“What is this?” said Solange, drawing rein before the place.
“Ma’am, you better come along,” replied Sucatash. “I reckon the bootleggers and gamblers have run in a load of poison and started a honkatonk. If that’s it, this here dive is sure no place for peaceable folks like us at this time o’ night.”
“But it is here that these desperate men who will kill may be found, is it not?” Solange asked.
“You can sure find ’em as bad as you want ’em, in there. But you can’t go in there, ma’am! My God! That place is hell!”
“Then it is the place for me,” said Solange. She swung down from her horse and walked calmly to the dimly outlined canvas door, swung it back and stepped inside.
* * *
CHAPTER XXII
VENGEANCE!
The place, seen from within, was a smoky inferno, lighted precariously by oil lanterns hung from the poles that supported a canvas roof and sides. Rows of grommets and snap hasps indicated that pack tarpaulins had been largely used in the construction. To a height of about five feet the walls were of hastily hewn slabs, logs in the rough, pieces of packing cases, joined or laid haphazard, with chinks and gaps through which the wind blew, making rivulets of chill in a stifling atmosphere of smoke, reeking alcohol, sweat and oil fumes. The building was a rough rectangle about twenty feet by fifty. At one end boards laid across barrels formed a semblance of a counter, behind which two burly men in red undershirts dispensed liquor.
Pieces of packing cases nailed to lengths of logs made crazy tables scattered here and there. Shorter logs upended formed the chairs. There was no floor. Sand had been thrown on the ground after the snow had been shoveled off, but the scuffling feet had beaten and trampled it into the sodden surface and had hashed it into mud.
Ankle-deep in the reeking slush stood thirty or forty men, clad mostly in laced boots, corduroys or overalls, canvas or Mackinaw jackets; woolen-shirted, slouch-hatted. Rough of face and figure, they stood before the bar or lounged at the few tables, talking in groups, or shouting and carousing joyously. There was a faro layout on one of the tables where a man in a black felt hat, smoking a cigar, dealt from the box, while a wrinkle-faced man with a mouth like a slit cut in parchment sat beside him on a high log, as lookout. Half a dozen men played silently.
Perhaps half of those present milled promiscuously among the groups, hail-fellow-well-met, drunk, blasphemous, and loud. These shouted, sang and cursed with vivid impartiality. The other half, keener-eyed, stern of face, capable, drew together in small groups of two or three or four, talking more quietly and ignoring all others except as they kept a general alert watch on what was going on. These were the old-timers, experienced men, who trusted no strangers and had no mind to allow indiscreet familiarities from the more reckless and ignorant.
When the door opened to admit Solange, straight and slim in her plain leather tunic and breeches, stained dark with melted snow, the drunken musicians perched on upended logs were the first to see her. They stopped their playing and stared, and slowly a grin came upon one of them.
“Oh, mamma! Look who’s here!” he shouted.
Half a hundred pairs of eyes swung toward the door and silence fell upon the place. Stepping heedlessly into the ankle-deep muck, Solange walked forward. Her flat-brimmed hat was pulled low over her face and the silk bandanna hid her hair. Behind her Sucatash walked uncertainly, glaring from side to side at the gaping men.
The groups that kept to themselves cast appraising eyes on the cow-puncher and then turned them away. They pointedly returned to their own affairs as though to say that, however strange, the advent of this girl accompanied by the lean rider, was none of their business. Again spoke experience and the wariness born of it.
But the tenderfeet, the drunken roisterers, were of different clay. A chorus of shouts addressed to “Sister” bade her step up and have a drink. A wit, in a falsetto scream, asked if he might have the next dance. Jokes, or what passed in that crew for them, flew thickly, growing more ribald and suggestive as the girl stood, indifferent, and looked about her.
Then Sucatash strode between her and the group near the bar from which most of the noise emanated. He hitched his belt a bit and faced them truculently.
“You-all had better shut up,” he announced in a flat voice. His words brought here and there a derisive echo, but for the most part the mirth died away. The loudest jibers turned ostentatiously back to the bar and called for more liquor. The few hardy ones who would have carried on their ridicule felt that sympathy had fled from them, and muttered into silence. Yet half of the crew carried weapons hung in plain sight, and others no doubt were armed, although the tools were not visible, while Sucatash apparently had no weapon.
Behind the fervid comradeship and affection, the men were strangers each to the other. None knew whom he could trust; none dared to strike lest the others turn upon him.
At one of the rude tables not far from the entrance, sat three men. They had a bottle of pale and poisonous liquor before them from which they took frequent and deep drinks. They talked loudly, advertising their presence above the quieter groups. One or two men stood at the table, examining a heap of dirty particles of crushed rock spread upon the boards. They would look at it, finger it and then pass on, generally without other comment than a muttered word or two. But the three seated men, one of whom was the gray, weasel-faced Jim Banker, boasted loudly, and profanely calling attention to the “color” and the exceeding richness of the ore. Important, swaggering, and braggart, they assumed the airs of an aristo
cracy, as of men set apart and elevated by success.
Outside, in the lull occasioned by Solange’s dramatic entrance, noises of the camp could be heard through the flimsy walls. Far down the cañon faint shouts could be heard. Some one was calling to animals of some sort, apparently. A faint voice, muffled by snow, raised a yell.
“H’yar comes the fust dog sled in from the No’th,” he cried. “That’s the sour doughs for yuh! He’s comin’ right!”
They could hear the faint snarls and barks of dogs yelping far down the cañon.
Then the noise swelled up again and drowned the alien sounds.
Dimly through the murk Solange saw the evil face of the desert rat, now flushed with drink and greed, and, with a sudden resolution, she turned and walked toward him. He saw her coming and stared, his face growing sallow and his yellow teeth showing. He gave the impression of a cornered rat at the moment.
Then his eyes fell on Sucatash, who followed her, and he half rose from his seat, fumbling for a gun. Sucatash paid no heed to him, not noticing his wild stare nor the slight slaver of saliva that sprang to his lips. His companions were busy showing the ore to curious spectators and were too drunk to heed him.
Slowly Banker subsided into his seat as he saw that neither Solange nor Sucatash apparently had hostile intentions. He tried to twist his seamed features into an ingratiating grin, but the effort was a failure, producing only a grimace.
“W’y, here’s ole French Pete’s gal!” he exclaimed, cordially, though there was a quaver in his voice. “Da’tter of my old friend what diskivered this here mine an’ then lost it. Killed, he was, by a gunman, twenty years gone. Gents, say howdy to the lady!”
His two companions gaped and stared upward at the strange figure. The standing men, awkwardly and with a muttered word or two, backed away from the table, alert and watchful. Women meant danger in such a community. Under the deep shadow of her hat brim, Solange’s eyes smoldered, dim and mysterious.
“You are Monsieur Banker!” she asserted, tonelessly. “You need not be frightened. I have not come to ask you for an accounting—yet. It is for another purpose that I am here.”
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