by B. J. Holmes
‘One thing’s fer sure,’ another said. ‘I ain’t waiting around to find out.’
‘We could try to round up as many as we can,’ said the third.
‘And I could become President,’ the second snapped. ‘Jesus, they’ve scattered all over the damn place. And look at the terrain, for God’s sake. This ain’t the prairie, you know!’ He strode out towards his horse. ‘I’m gettin’ the hell outta here! Just as fer from Booker as I can git!’
Without further words they untethered their own horses, mounted up and headed west.
Stompy Mulligan was an old prospector. Both words — ‘old’ and ‘prospector’ — were apt. As to his age, he was on the far side of seventy. As to his occupation, he was a prospector — in the bald sense of the word. He prospected but rarely found anything. Like now he’d been looking for silver with his young sidekick Al in northern Montana up near the British line. Again both words — young sidekick — were apt descriptions of his companion. At sixty-nine, he was the younger of the two. And being several cents short of a dollar in the brain department, he always played second fiddle to Stompy, doing everything he was bid like a tame, wizened lap-dog.
Their diggings up-territory had been unsuccessful and, as old joints and bone-deep cold don’t sit together too well — they had decided to move south as winter was setting in. The two men had just picked their way through a stand of spruce to find themselves in a glade where there were horses grazing. Not many, just a handful. Some of the animals looked up and, unperturbed by the intruders, returned to their feeding.
Stompy gave the signal to halt. He did a quick head-count. ‘There’s eleven of the critters. And they didn’t spook when we showed up. That means they must be broke-in!’
‘What’s on your mind, Stompy?’
‘You know what the British are paying for horses these days?’
That guy up at Fort McLeod did tell us but I plumb forgot.’
‘Up to a hundred dollars apiece.’
‘What you thinking, Stompy?’
Stompy looked at his companion. ‘Gee, Al, sometimes I despair of you. Come on, let’s see how much rope we got.’
They had an ample supply on their mule and so docile were the horses that they allowed rope around their necks with little trouble.
‘We’re heading north again, pardner,’ Stompy said triumphantly. This find is as good as ore!’
They strung the horses in line and, pulling hats low and collars tight up around their necks, headed once more for the northern trail. The way their luck had suddenly changed, the full blast of the oncoming winter would hold off until they had disposed profitably of their newly acquired assets. It was the first time the Stompy Mulligan Mineral Company Limited had struck gold in a long, long time.
Shatterhand’s horse made it slowly southward with his master, tired and groggy from his head injury, slumped in the saddle. Back at the fort the old campaigner revived enough to be able to complete the story for the erstwhile protagonists. Mrs. Draper learned there was now no obstacle to her being reunited with Captain Stanton and the two spent some uninterrupted time in the shadows planning an unknown future. Despite her treatment at the hands of her husband, it had been with mixed feelings that she had received the news of his death. One doesn’t live with a person for so long without retaining some sorrow in one’s heart.
The assistant commissioner, whose wound had proved to be superficial, learned of his promotion and there was general agreement that he would make a far better commissioner than his predecessor.
Finally, with the words out of the way, Old Shatterhand dropped onto a bunk in the troopers’ quarters. He laid his head thankfully on a pillow, pulled up his Hudson Bay blanket and instantly began to snore. After all, it must be admitted that Nature had her demands for repose, even on the iron frame and patient disposition of living legends. And that night, Old Shatterhand slept like he had not slept for many, many moons.
Piccadilly Publishing
To visit our website, click here
To visit our blog, click here
To follow us on Facebook click here
