IV
SELF-DEFENCE
When Bruce came out of the canyon, where he had a wider view of the sky,he saw that wicked-looking clouds were piling thick upon one another inthe northeast, and he wondered whether the month was the first ofNovember or late October, as Slim insisted. They had lost track somehow,and of the day of the week they had not the faintest notion.
There was always the first big snowstorm to be counted on in the BitterRoot Mountains, after which it sometimes cleared and was open weatherfor weeks. But this was when it came early in September; the snow thatfell now would in all probability lie until spring.
At any rate, there was wood to be cut, enough to last out a week'sstorm. But, first, Bruce told himself, he must clean up the rocker, elsehe would lose nearly the entire proceeds of his day's work. The gold wasso light that much of it floated and went off with the water when thesand was wet again, after it had once dried upon the apron.
Bruce placed a gold pan at the end of the rocker, and, with a cleanscrubbing brush, carefully worked the sand over the Brussels-carpetapron, pouring water into the grizzly the while.
"That trip up the canyon cost me half a day's wages," he thought as hesaw the thin yellow scum floating on the top of the pan.
Sitting on his heel by the river's edge, where he had made a quiet poolby building a breakwater of pebbles, he agitated and swirled the sandin the gold pan until only a small quantity remained, and while hewatched carefully lest some of the precious specks and flakes whichfollowed in a thick, yellow string behind the sand slip around thecorners and over the edge, he also cast frequent glances at the peaksthat became each moment more densely enveloped in the clouds.
"When she cuts loose she's going to be a twister," and he added grimly,as instinctively his eyes sought the saddleback or pass over which theancient trail of the Sheep-eater Indians ran: "Those game hogs betterpull their freight if they count on going out as they came in."
His fingers were numb when he stood up and shook the cold river waterfrom them, turning now to look across for a sight of Slim.
"I've cut his share of wood all summer, so I guess there's no usequitting now. Turning pancakes is about the hardest work he's done sincewe landed on the bar. Oh, well"--he raised one big shoulder in a shrugof resignation--"we'll split this partnership when we get out of here.By rights I ought to dig out now."
The chips flew as he swung the ax with blows that tested the tough oakhandle. Bruce Burt was a giant in his strength, and as unconscious ofthe greatness of it as a bear. He could not remember that he had everfully tried it. He never had lifted a weight when he had not known that,if necessary, he could lift a little more. His physique had fulfilledthe promise of his sturdy youth, and he was as little aware that it,too, was remarkable as he was of the fact that men and women turned inadmiration to look again at his dark, unsmiling face upon the rareoccasions when he had walked the streets of the towns.
He was as splendid a specimen of his kind as Old Felix, as primitivenearly, and as shy. His tastes had led him into the wilderness, and hehad followed the gold strikes and the rumors of gold strikes fromSonora, in Old Mexico, to the Siberian coast, on Behring Sea, in searchof a new Klondike. He had lived hard, endured much in the adventurouslife of which he seldom talked. His few intimates had been men likehimself--the miners and prospectors who built their cabins in thefastnesses with Hope their one companion, to eat and sleep and workwith. He was self-educated and well informed along such lines as histastes led him. He read voraciously all that pertained to Nature, to herrocks and minerals, and he knew the habits of wild animals as he knewhis own. Of the people and that vague place they called "the outside,"he knew little or nothing.
He had acquaintances and he had enemies in the mining camps whichnecessity compelled him to visit at long intervals for the purchase ofsupplies. Agreeable and ingratiating storekeepers who sold himgroceries, picks, shovels, powder, drills, at fifty per cent. profit,neat, smooth-shaven gamblers, bartenders, who welcomed him withboisterous camaraderie, tired and respectable women who "run" boardinghouses, painted, highly-perfumed ladies of the dance hall, enigmaticChinamen, all were types with which he was familiar. But he called noneof them "friend." Their tastes, their interests, their standards ofconduct were different from his own. They had nothing in common, yet hecould not have explained exactly why. He told himself vaguely that hedid not "cotton" to them, and thought the fault was with himself.
Bruce was twenty-seven, and his mother was still his ideal of womanhood.He doubted if there were another like her in all the world. Certainly henever had seen one who in the least approached her. He remembered hervividly, the grave, gray, comprehending eyes, the long braids of hairwhich lay like thick new hempen rope upon the white counterpane.
His lack of a substantial education--a college education--was a sorespot with him which did not become less sore with time. If she had livedhe was sure it would have been different. With his mother to intercedefor him he knew that he would have had it. After her death his fathergrew more taciturn, more impatient, more bent on preparing him to followin his footsteps, regardless of his inclinations. The "lickings" becamemore frequent, for he seemed only to see his mistakes and childishfaults.
The culmination had come when he had asked to be allowed to leave thecountry school where he rode daily, and attend the better one in thenearest village, which necessitated boarding. After nerving himself fordays to ask permission, he had been refused flatly.
"What do you think I'm made of--money?" his father had demanded. "You'llstay where you are until you've learned to read, and write, and figure:then you'll help me with the cattle. Next thing you'll be wantin' toplay a flute or the piano."
He thought of his father always with hardness and unforgiveness, for herealized now, as he had not at the time he ran away from home, what thethousands of acres, the great herd of sleek cattle, meant--the fortunethat they represented.
"He could have so well afforded it," Bruce often mused bitterly. "Andit's all I would have asked of him. I didn't come into the world becauseI wanted to come, and he owed it to me--my chance!"
The flakes of snow which fell at first and clung tenaciously to Bruce'sdark-blue flannel shirt were soft and wet, so much so that they werealmost drops of rain, but soon they hardened and bounced and rattled asthey began to fall faster.
As he threw an armful of wood behind the sheet-iron camp stove, Brucegave a disparaging poke at a pan of yeast bread set to rise.
"Slim and I will have to take this dough to bed with us to keep it warmif it turns much colder. Everything's going to freeze up stiff as asnake. Never remember it as cold as this the first storm. Well, I'll geta pail of water, then let her come." He added uneasily: "I wish Slimwould get in."
His simple preparations were soon complete, and when he closed the heavydoor of whip-sawed lumber it was necessary to light the small kerosenelamp, although the dollar watch ticking on its nail said the hour wasbut four-thirty.
He eyed a pile of soiled dishes in disgust, then set a lard bucket ofwater to heat.
"Two days' gatherings! After I've eaten four meals off the same plate itbegins to go against me. Slim would scrape the grub off with a stick andeat for a year without washing a dish. Seems like the better raised somefellers are the dirtier they are when they're out like this. Guess I'llwash me a shirt or two while I'm holed up. Now where did I put mydishrag?"
His work and his huge masculinity looked ludicrously incongruous as hebent over the low table and scraped at the tin plates with his thumbnail or squinted into the lard buckets, of which there seemed an endlessarray.
The lard bucket is to the prospector what baling wire is to thefreighter on the plains, and Bruce, from long experience, knew itsevery use. A lard bucket was his coffee-pot, his stewing kettle, hissour-dough can. He made mulligan in one lard bucket and boiled beans inanother. The outside cover made a good soap dish, and the inside coveranswered well enough for a mirror when he shaved.
He wrung out his dis
hcloth now and hung it on a nail, then eyed the bedin the end of the cabin disapprovingly.
"That's a tough-looking bunk for white men to sleep in! Wonder how'twould seem if 'twas made?"
While he shook and straightened the blankets, and smote the bear-grasspillows with his fists, he told himself that he would cut some freshpine boughs to soften it a little as soon as the weather cleared.
"I'm a tidy little housewife," he said sardonically as he tucked awaythe blankets at the edge. "I've had enough inside work to do since Itook in a star boarder to be first-class help around some lady's home."A dead tree crashed outside. "Wow! Listen to that wind! Sounds like abunch of squaws wailing; maybe it's a war party lost in the Nez PerceSpirit Land. Wish Slim would come." He walked to the door and listened,but he could hear nothing save the howling of the wind.
He was poking aimlessly at the bread dough with his finger, wondering ifit ever meant to rise, wondering if his partner would come home in abetter humor, wondering if he should tell him about the salt, when Slimburst in with a swirl of snow and wind which extinguished the tiny lamp.In the glimpse Bruce had of his face he saw that it was scowling andugly.
Slim placed his rifle on the deer-horn gun rack without speaking andstamped the mud and snow from his feet in the middle of the freshlyswept floor.
"I was kind of worried about you," Bruce said, endeavoring to speaknaturally. "I'm glad you got in."
"Don't know what you'd worry about me for," was the snarling answer."I'm as well able to take care of myself as you are."
"It's a bad night for anybody to be roaming around the hills." Bruce wasadjusting the lamp chimney and putting it back on the shelf, but henoticed that Slim's face was working as it did in his rages, and hesighed; they were in for another row.
"You think you're so almighty wise; I don't need _you_ to tell me whenit's fit to be out."
Bruce did not answer, but his black eyes began to shine. Slim noticed itwith seeming satisfaction, and went on:
"I saw them pet sheep of yourn comin' down. Did you give 'em salt?"
Bruce hesitated.
"Yes, Slim, I did. I suppose I shouldn't have done it, but the poorlittle devils----"
"And I'm to go without! Who the ---- do you think you are to give away mysalt?"
"_Your_ salt----" Bruce began savagely, then stopped. "Look here, Slim!"His deep voice had an appealing note. "It wasn't right when there wasso little, I'll admit that, but what's the use of being so onery? Iwouldn't have made a fuss if you had done the same thing. Let's try andget along peaceable the few days we'll be cooped up in here, and whenthe storm lets up I'll pull out. I should have gone before. But I don'twant to wrangle and quarrel with you, Slim; honest I don't."
"You _bet_ you don't!" Slim answered, with ugly significance.
Bruce's strong, brown fingers tightened as he leaned against the windowcasement with folded arms. His silence seemed to madden Slim.
"You bet you don't!" he reiterated, and added in shrill venom: "I might'a' knowd how 'twould be when I throwed in with a mucker like you."
"Careful, Slim--go slow!" Bruce's eyes were blazing now between theirnarrowed lids, but he did not move. His voice was a whisper.
"That's what I said! I'll bet your father toted mortar for a plastererand your mother washed for a dance hall!"
Slim's taunting, devilish face, corpse-like in its pallor above hisblack beard, was all Bruce saw as he sprang for his throat. He backedhim against the door and held him there.
"You miserable dog--I ought to kill you!" The words came from betweenhis set teeth. He drew back his hand and slapped him first on the rightcheek, then on the left. He flung Slim from him the length of the cabin,where he struck against the bunk.
Slim got to his feet and rushed headlong toward the door. Bruce thoughthe meant to snatch his rifle from the rack, and was ready, but he toreat the fastening and ran outside. Bruce watched the blackness swallowhim, and wondered where he meant to go, what he meant to do on such anight. He was not left long in doubt.
He heard Slim coming back, running, cursing vilely as he came. The shaftof yellow light which shot into the darkness fell upon the gleamingblade of the ax that he bore uplifted in his hand.
"Slim!"
The answer was a scream that was not human. Slim was a madman! Bruce sawit clearly now. Insanity blazed in his black eyes. There was nomistaking the look; Slim was violently, murderously insane!
"I'm goin' to get you!" His scream was like a woman's screech. "I'vemeant to get you all along, and I'm goin' to do it now!"
"Drop it, Slim! Drop that ax!"
But Slim came on.
Instinctively Bruce reached for the heavy, old-fashioned revolverhanging on its nail.
Slim half turned his body to get a longer, harder swing, aiming asdeliberately for Bruce's head as though he meant to split a stick ofwood.
Bruce saw one desperate chance and took it. He could not bring himselfto stop Slim with a gun. He flung it from him. Swift and sure he swoopedand caught Slim by the ankles in the instant that he paused. Exertinghis great strength, he hurled him over his shoulder, ax and all, wherehe fell hard, in a heap, in the corner, between the bunk and wall. Thesharp blade of the ax cut the carotid artery.
Bruce turned to see a spurt of blood. Slim rolled over on his back, andit gushed like a crimson fountain. Bruce knelt beside him, tryingfrantically to bring together the severed ends, to stop somehow theghastly flow that was draining the madman's veins.
But he did not know how, his fingers were clumsy, and Slim would not liestill. He threshed about like a dying animal, trying to rise and staggeraround the room. Finally his chest heaved, and his contracted legdropped with a thud. Bruce stared at the awful pallor of Slim's face,then he got up and washed his hands.
He looked at the watch ticking steadily through it all; it was barely aquarter to five. He spread his slicker on the bunk and laid Slim on itand tried to wash the blood from the floor and the logs of the cabinwall, but it left a stain. He changed his shirt--murderers alwayschanged their shirts and burned them.
Slim was dead; he wouldn't have to get supper for Slim--ever again. Andhe had killed him! Mechanically he poked his finger into the dough. Itwas rising. He could work it out pretty soon. Slim was dead; he need notget supper for Slim; he kept looking at him to see if he had moved. Howsinister, how "onery" Slim looked even in death. He closed his mouth anddrew the corner of a blanket over the cruel, narrow face. How still itseemed after the commotion and Slim's maniacal screams!
He had joined the army of men who have killed their partners. Whattrifles bring on quarrels in the hills; what mountains molehills becomewhen men are alone in the wilderness! That cook in the Buffalo Hump whotried to knife him because he stubbed his toe against the coffee-pot,and "Packsaddle Pete," who meant to brain him when they differed overthrowing the diamond hitch; and now Slim was dead because he had given ahandful of salt to the mountain sheep.
It did not seem to matter that Slim had said he meant to kill him,anyhow, or that the way in which his malignant eyes had followed hisevery movement took on new significance in the light of what hadhappened. He blamed himself. He should have quit long ago. He shouldhave seen that Slim's ill-balanced mind needed only a trifle to shove itover the edge. It had never seemed so still in the cabin even when Slimwas gone as it did now. Mechanically he set about getting supper, makingas much noise as he could.
But he was unable to eat after it was on the table before him. He drankhis coffee and stared at the bacon and cold biscuit a while, then washedthe dishes again. Slim seemed to be getting farther and farther away.
The storm outside had become a blizzard. Old Mother Westwind took to herheels and the Boss of the Arctic raged. It occurred to Bruce that itwould be hard to bury Slim if the ground froze, and that reminded himthat perhaps Slim had "folks" who ought to know.
Bruce filled the stove, and shoved his bread in the oven; then he pulledSlim's war bag from under the bunk and dumped the contents on the table,hop
ing with all his heart that he would not find an address. He couldnot imagine how his should find the words in which to tell them that hehad killed Slim.
There were neckties, samples of ore, a pair of silk suspenders, and aminer's candlestick, one silk sock, a weasel skin, a copy of "TheGadfly," and a box of quinine pills. No papers, no letters, not a singleclew to his identity. Bruce felt relief. Wait--what was this? He tookthe bag by the corners, and a photographer's mailing case fell out. Itwas addressed to Slim in Silver City, New Mexico, in a childish,unformed hand.
He took out the picture and found himself smiling into the eyes thatsmiled up into his. He knew intuitively that it was Slim's sister, yetthe resemblance was the faintest, and there was not a trace of hismeanness in her look.
He had been right in his conjecture, Slim _was_ "the runt of somethinggood." There was no mistaking the refinement and good breeding in thegirl's sweet face.
Slim had known better, yet nearly always he had talked in the languageof the uneducated Westerner, in the jargon of yeggmen, and thevernacular of the professional tramps with whom he had hoboed over theWest--a "gay cat," as he was pleased to call himself, when boasting ofthe "toughness" of his life. He had affected uncleanliness, uncouthness;but in spite of his efforts the glimmer of the "something good" of whichhe was the runt had shown through.
Slim had had specific knowledge of a world which Bruce knew only byhearsay; and when it had suited his purpose, as when Bruce had first methim in Meadows, he had talked correctly, even brilliantly, and he hadhad an undeniable charm of manner for men and women alike. But, oncewell started down the river, he had thrown off all restraint, ignoringcompletely the silent code which exists between partners in the hills.
Such fellows were well named "black sheep," Bruce thought, as he lookedat the picture.
A letter had been wrapped around the photograph, with an address and adate line twelve years old. The letter read:
DEAR BROTHER: We have just heard that you were working in a mine down there and so I thought I would write and tell you that I hope you are well and make a lot of money. I hope you do and come home because we are awful poor and mother says if I don't marry well she don't know what we will do because there are mortgages on everything and we don't keep horses any more and only one servant which is pretty hard for mother. The girl is sassy sometimes but mother can't let her go because she can't pay her yet. Please, Freddie, come home and help us. Everything dreadful has happened to us since father died. Mother will forgive you for being bad and so do I although it was not nice to see our names and pictures in the papers all the time. Write to me, Freddie, as soon as you get this. Your loving sister,
HELEN.
P. S.--I am thirteen to-day and this is my picture. I wish I could go West too, but don't mention this when you write.
Bruce wondered if Slim had answered. He would wager his buckskin bag ofdust that he had not. The marvel was that he had even kept the letter.He looked again at the date line--twelve years--the mortgages had longsince been foreclosed, if it had depended upon Slim to pay them--and shewas twenty-five. He wondered if she'd "married well."
Slim was a failure; he stood for nothing in the world of achievement;for all the difference that his going made, he might never have beenborn. Then a thought as startling as the tangible appearance of someironic, grinning imp flashed to his mind. Who was he, Bruce Burt, tocriticise his partner, Slim? What more had he accomplished? How muchmore difference would his own death make in anybody's life? His mother'slabored words came back with painful distinctness: "I've had such hopesfor you, my little boy. I've dreamed such dreams for you--I wanted tosee them all come true." An inarticulate sound came from him that wasboth pain and self-disgust. He was close to twenty-eight--almostthirty--and he'd spent the precious years "just bumming round." Nothingto show for them but a little gold dust and the clothes he wore. Hewondered if his mother knew.
Her wedding ring was still in a faded velvet case that he kept among histreasures. He never had seen a woman who had suggested ever so faintlythe thought that he should like to place it on her finger. There hadbeen women, of a kind--"Peroxide Louise," in Meadows, with her bovinecoquetry and loud-mouthed vivacity, yapping scandal up and down thetown, the transplanted product of a city's slums, not even loyal to theman who had tried to raise her to his level.
Bruce never had considered marrying; the thought of it for himselfalways made him smile. But why couldn't he--the thought now camegradually, and grew--why _shouldn't_ he assume the responsibilities Slimshirked if conditions were the same and help was still needed? Inexpiation, perhaps, he could halfway make amends.
He'd write and mail the letter in Ore City as soon as he could snowshoeout. He'd express them half the dust and tell them that 'twas Slim's.He'd----"OO--oo--ough!" he shivered--he'd forgotten to stoke the fire.Oh, well, a soogan would do him well enough.
He pulled a quilt from under Slim and wrapped it about his ownshoulders. Then he sat down again by the fireless stove and laid hishead on his folded arms upon the rough pine table. The still body onthe bunk grew stark while he slept, the swift-running river froze fromshore to shore, the snow piled in drifts, obliterating trails andblocking passes, weighting the pines to the breaking point, while theintense cold struck the chill of death into the balls of feathershuddled for shelter under the flat branches of the spruces.
The Man from the Bitter Roots Page 4
