But only did she permit her warm smile to convey something of all she felt as she rejected his offer.
“You don’t know what you are asking,” she said gently. Then she shook her head. “It is impossible. No one can shift the burdens of life on to the shoulders of another—however willing they be. No one has the right to attempt it. As we are born, so we must live. The life that is ours is ours alone.”
Buck caught at her words with a sudden outburst of passionate remonstrance.
“You’re wrong—dead wrong,” he declared vehemently, his eyes glowing with the depth of feeling stirring him, a hot flush forcing its way through the deep tanning of his cheeks. “No gal has a right to carry trouble with a man around to help. She’s made for the sunlight, for the warmth an’ ease of life. She’s made to set around an’ take in all those good things the good God meant for her so she can pass ’em right on to the kiddies still to be born. A woman’s jest the mother of the world. An’ the men she sets on it are there to see her right. The woman who don’t see it that way is wrong—dead wrong. An’ the man that don’t get right up on to his hind legs an’ do those things—wal, he ain’t a man.”
It was a moment Joan would never forget. As long as she lived that eager face, with eyes alight, the rapid tongue pouring out the sentiments of his simple heart must ever remain with her. It was a picture of virile manhood such as in her earliest youth she had dreamed of, a dream which had grown dimmer and dimmer as she progressed toward womanhood and learned the ways of the life that had been hers. Here it was in all reality, in all its pristine simplicity, but—she gathered up her reins and moved her horse round, heading him toward home.
“I’m glad I came out here—in the wilderness,” she said earnestly. “I’m glad, too, that I came to see this great black hill. Yes, and I’m glad to think that I have begun the lessons which this great big world is going to teach me. For the rest—we’d better go home. Look! The daylight is going.”
* * *
CHAPTER XIX
A STUDY IN MISCHIEF
Nearly three months had passed and all Beasley Melford’s affairs were amply prospering. His new saloon was the joy of his heart. It had been completed more than a week, which week had been something in the nature of a triumph of financial success. The camp was booming as he had never dared to hope it would boom. Traders were opening up business all round him, and the output of gold was increasing every day. But, with all this rapid development, with all the wrangling and competition going on about him, he was the centre of the commercial interests of Yellow Creek, and his saloon was the centre of all its traffic.
But he was quite alive to the fact that he must maintain his position and custom by keeping well in line, even just a little ahead of all competition. He knew that to rest on his oars would be to court swift disaster. It must be his constant thought to make his place more and more attractive, to listen to the voice of public requirements, and seize every opportunity of catering for them.
His saloon was no better than a gambling-hell and drinking-booth, the dry goods side of his enterprise being almost insignificant. For he knew that the more surely his customers could indulge in such pastimes in comparative comfort the more surely he would keep them. So he made these things the basis of his trade. But there were other needs to be provided for. Therefore, on the completion of his new saloon, and the moment his vanity had been satisfied by the erection of a great board top, set up on the pitch of the roof, announcing in blatant lettering that it was “Melford’s Hotel,” he set to work to erect a dance hall and a livery barn. He foresaw the necessity of running a stage, and he never lost sight of the fact that a great number of the women of the class he wished to see about were invading the place. Then, too, the dance hall could be used as a boarding establishment for those who had no homes of their own.
It was a precious thought, and, after a journey to Leeson Butte to consult his partner, these matters were put in hand. He no longer worked single-handed. His establishment was increased by the advent of a bartender, a Chinese cook, and a livery stable keeper. These, and some casual labor from among the loafers, supplied him with all the help he so far found necessary.
The bar and the gambling-tables were always his own care. These were the things he would never trust to other hands. The bartender was his helper only, who was never allowed to escape the observation of his lynx eyes.
Yes, Beasley Melford was flourishing as he intended to flourish, and his satisfaction was enormous. In the mornings he was always busy supervising the work, in the afternoons he gave himself what leisure his restless spirit demanded. But in the evenings he gathered his harvest by rascally methods of flagrant extortion.
It was during the latter part of his afternoon leisure that he was suddenly disturbed by the appearance of Montana Ike in his bar. He was stretched full length upon his counter, comfortably reviewing a perfect maze of mental calculations upon the many schemes which he had in hand, when the youngster pushed the swing door open and blustered in.
Beasley was sitting up in an instant. He hated this sort of sudden disturbance. He hated men who rushed at him. He could never be certain of their intentions. When he saw who his visitor was there was very little friendliness in his greeting.
“Wot in hell you want rushin’ that way?” he demanded arrogantly. “Guess your thirst ain’t on a time limit.”
But the ginger-headed youth ignored his ill-temper. He was too full of his own affairs. He simply grinned.
“Fish out them durned scales o’ yours,” he cried gleefully. “Fish ’em out, an’ set your big weights on ’em. Ther’ ain’t goin’ to be no chat nor drink till you weighed in. Then I guess the drink’ll be right up to you.”
Beasley’s mood changed like lightning. He swung over behind his bar and dropped to the floor on the other side, his eyes alight, and every faculty alert for trade.
“Wot’s it?” he demanded. “Struck it big?” he went on as the dingy gold scales were produced from the shelf at the back. Then he laughed amiably. “It needs to be big, wakin’ me in my slack time.”
“Oh, it’s big enuff,” cried Ike confidently, his eager, young, animal face alight with pleasure.
He watched the other with impatient eyes as he deliberately picked out the weights. But Beasley was too slow, and, with an impatient exclamation, he snatched up the biggest of them and set it on the somewhat delicate scales with a heavy hand.
“Say, you’re rapid as a sick funeral,” he cried. “I ain’t got no time to waste. What I got here’ll need that—an’ more. Ther’!”
Beasley’s temper was never easy, and his narrow eyes began to sparkle.
“You’re mighty fresh,” he cried. “Guess I’m——”
But his remark remained unfinished. With a boisterous laugh the boy flung a small canvas bag on the counter and emptied its contents before the other’s astonished eyes.
“Ther’,” he cried gleefully. “I want dollars an’ dollars from you. An’ you’ll sure see they ain’t duds.”
Beasley’s eyes opened wide. In a moment he had forgotten his ill-humor.
From the gold spread out before him he looked up into the other’s face with a half-suspicious, wholly incredulous stare.
“You got that from your claim—to-day?” he asked.
“An’ wher’ in hell else?”
“Sure!” Beasley fingered the precious nuggets lovingly. “Gee! Ther’s nigh five hundred dollars there.”
“Fi’ hundred—an’ more,” cried Ike anxiously.
But Beasley’s astonishment was quickly hidden under his commercial instincts. He would have called them “commercial.”
“We’ll soon fix that,” he said, setting the scales.
Ike leant against the bar watching the man finger his precious ore as he placed each of the six nuggets in the scale and weighed them separately. He took the result down on paper and worked their separate values out at his own market prices. In five minutes the work was completed, and the man
behind the bar looked up with a grin.
“I don’t gener’ly make a bad guess,” he said blandly. “But I reckoned ’em a bit high this journey. Ther’s four hundred an’ seventy-six dollars comin’ to you—ha’f cash an’ ha’f credit. Is it a deal?”
The other’s face flamed up. A volcanic heat set him almost shouting.
“To hell!” he cried fiercely. “Ther’s fi’ hundred dollars ther’ if ther’s a cent. An’ I want it all cash.”
Beasley shook his head. He had this boy’s exact measure, and knew just how to handle him.
“The scales don’t lie,” he said. “But ther’, it’s the way wi’ youse fellers. You see a chunk o’ gold an’ you don’t see the quartz stickin’ around it. Here, I’ll put a hundred an’ seventy-six credit an’ the rest cash. I can’t speak fairer.”
He drew a roll of bills from his hip-pocket and began counting the three hundred out. He knew the sight of them was the best argument he could use. It never failed. Nor did it do so now.
Ike grumbled and protested in the foulest language he was capable of, but he grabbed the dollars when they were handed to him, and stowed them into his hip-pocket with an eagerness which suggested that he feared the other might repent of his bargain. And Beasley quickly swept the precious nuggets away and securely locked them in his safe, with the certain knowledge that his profit on the deal was more than cent for cent.
“You’ll take rye,” he said as he returned his keys to his pocket. “An’ seein’ it’s your good day, an’ it’s on me, we’ll have it out o’ this thirteen-year-old bottle.”
He pushed the bottle across the counter and watched Ike pour himself out a full “four fingers.” The sight of his gluttony made Beasley feel glad that the thirteen-year-old bottle had been replenished that morning from the common “rot-gut” cask. After their drink he became expansive.
“That’s an elegant claim of yours, Ike,” he said, taking up his favorite position on the bar. “It’s chock full of alluvial. Don’t scarcely need washing. Guess I must ha’ paid you two thousand dollars an’ more since—since we got busy. Your luck was mighty busy when they cast the lots.”
“Luck? Guess I’m the luckiest hoboe in this layout,” Ike cried with a confidence that never seemed to require the support of rye whisky.
Beasley’s eyes sparkled maliciously.
“How about Pete?” he grinned. He knew that Ike had an utter detestation of Pete, and did not have to guess at the reason. “I paid him more than that by fi’ hundred. How’s that?”
“Tcha’! Pete ain’t no account anyways,” Ike retorted angrily. “Say, he pitches his dollars to glory at poker ’most every night. Pete ain’t got no sort o’ savee. You don’t see me bustin’ my wad that way.”
“How about the gals? Guess you hand ’em a tidy pile.”
“Gals!” Ike suddenly became thoughtful. His gaze wandered toward the window. Then he abruptly turned back to the bar and clamored for another drink. “We’ll have that thirteen-year-old,” he cried. “An’ guess I’ll have a double dose. Gals!” he went on, with a sneer, as the other watched him fill a brimming tumbler.
“Ther’s sure on’y one gal around here. That’s why I got around now. Guess I’m payin’ her a ‘party’ call right now, ’fore the folks get around. Say, I’m goin’ to marry that gal. She’s sure a golden woman. Golden! Gee, it sounds good!”
Beasley grinned. He was on a hot trail and he warmed to his work.
“Goin’ to ask her now?” he inquired amiably, eyeing the spirit the man had poured out.
Ike laughed self-consciously.
“Sure,” he said, draining his glass.
“What about Pete?”
Ike looked sharply into the other’s grinning face. Then he banged his glass angrily on the counter and moved toward the door.
“Pete ken go plumb to hell!” he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out.
Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm.
His eyes were smiling wickedly.
“Don’t guess Pete’s chasin’ ther’ to suit you, Master Ike,” he muttered. “Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys! You’re beat before you start—beat a mile. Buck’s got you smashed to a pulp. Kind of wish I’d given you less cash and more credit. Hello!”
He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.
“Wher’s Ike?” he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.
“Gee!” Beasley’s grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.
Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.
“You’re rattled some,” he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: “Seems to me I asked you a civil question.”
Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.
“You sure did,” he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other’s threatening frown. “Well, I ain’t laffin’ at you. It’s—it’s jest at things.”
But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.
“Ike been along?” he demanded doggedly.
Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s been in with a fat wad. Say, he’s a lucky swine. ’Most everything comes his way. Guess he can’t never touch bad. He’s ahead on the game, he’s a golden-haired pet with the gals, an’ he gits gold in—lumps.”
But Pete’s dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man’s mood was an ugly one.
“Wher’s he now?”
“Can’t jest say. I didn’t ask him wher’ he was goin’. Y’ see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he’s gone along to the gals. Have a drink?”
“No—yes, give us a horn of rye.”
The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.
“What you needin’ him for?” he asked with apparent unconcern.
Pete snatched at his drink.
“That ain’t your affair,” he retorted surlily.
“Sure it ain’t. I jest asked—casual.”
Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.
“I’m needin’ him bad,” he cried, his eyes furiously alight. “I’m needin’ him cos I know the racket he’s on. See? He quit his claim early cos—cos——”
“Cos he’s goin’ to pay a ‘party’ call on that Golden Woman,” cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. “I got it, now. That’s why he was in sech a hurry. That’s why he needed a good dose o’ rye. Say, that feller means marryin’ that gal. I’ve heard tell he’s got it all fixed with her. I’ve heard tell she’s dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain’t sure but wot it’s natural. He’s a good looker; so is she. An’ he’s a bright boy. Guess he’s got the grit to look after a gal good. He’s a pretty scrapper. Another drink?”
Pete refilled his glass. His fury was at bursting-point, and Beasley reveled in the devil now looking out of his angry eyes.
“He’s gone across ther’ now?” he demanded, after swallowing his second drink. His question was ominously quiet.
Beasley saw the man’s hands finger the guns at his waist. It was a movement the sight of which gave him a wonderful satisfaction.
“Seems like it,” he said. “Though course I can’t rightly say. I see him ride off down the trail that way——”
“Here, I’ll take another drink. I’m goin’ after——”
“Say, you ain’t goin’ to butt in with two folks courtin’?” cried Beasley, blandly innocent.
But Pete had no reply. He drained his third drink and, flinging the glass down
, bolted out of the bar; while Beasley turned with a malicious chuckle, and scrupulously entered up three drinks against the man’s name on the slate.
“I’d give somethin’ to see it,” he muttered. Then he rubbed out the entry he had made. “Guess I’ll make it six drinks. He’s too rattled to remember.”
Ten minutes later a number of men were lounging in the saloon, and Beasley, in the leisure of administering to their wants, was relating to them the story of the afternoon’s events. At the conclusion he added his own comment, which was not without definite purpose.
“Say, if they ain’t jest like two dogs worritin’ a bone you got me plumb beat,” he said. Then he added with an air of outraged virtue: “I’d like to say right here she’s jest playin’ them fellers for their wads. Oh, she’s a keen one, her eyes is right on to business. She’ll sure have ’em shootin’ each other right up. Seems to me a gal like that ain’t no right in this yer city. She’s a scandal to the place. An’ a danger. Wot we fellers needs to figure on is the liberty an’ safety of our citizens, an’ anything calc’lated to be a danger to that needs to git seen to.”
Some of the men concurred half-heartedly. They were men who had come into the camp with the rush, and were anxious to keep in with the saloon-keeper. Still, even they were very little stirred by his appeal. They cared not the least bit in the world who was shot up, or who did the shooting, so long as they were not personally concerned beyond the rôle of spectators.
So for once his mischief fell flat. It was too early in the day to make the impression he needed. They were not sufficiently primed with rye. So Beasley contented himself with insinuating the bottle toward doubtful customers, and easing his disappointment by making all the trade he could.
The Golden Woman Page 18
