by Zane Grey
“I’m a son of a gun!” ejaculated Kalispel.
“Borden runs the hall where she dances, doesn’t he?” went on Sloan.
“Yes. An’ Rand Leavitt is his silent pardner.”
“Do you think she told the truth? I can’t believe it.”
“No. I should smile not,” declared Kalispel, vehemently, slamming his knife down. “Nugget is as good an’ fine an’ clean as the gold she’s named for. Aw, I don’t care if she is a dance-hall girl. That’s her job, her misfortune....She dished you, Dick, because you were serious an’ she wanted to save you from trouble with Borden.”
“Kalispel, I shore was serious.”
“Better forget her, boy, an’ go back to your pannin’ gold.”
“But I can’t forget her,” Dick protested, miserably. “I love her!—Pard, didn’t you ever feel thet way about a girl, an’ couldn’t forget her?”
“Yes, I did, Dick. I do!”
“Then you must understand, Kalispel. I’ve got to figure a way. If I go to hittin’ the bottle an’ buckin’ the tiger she’ll see there’s no help for me—an’ be nice.”
“Dick, you’d be fool enough to do that,” snapped Kalispel, furiously. It was as if he were caught in the trap, too.
“My mind is made up, unless you can do somethin’,” answered Sloan, simply. “Nugget thinks a powerful lot of you. I hoped mebbe you’d coax her to change her mind about givin’ me up. I don’t ask much. But I’ve just got to see her.”
“All right, I’ll make her see you,” decided Kalispel, goaded by his conflicting emotions. “Go back to work. An’ I’ll fetch Nugget to the bridge tonight if I have to pack her. Right after supper.”
Sloan lunged up with glowing face, about to burst into grateful acclaim.
“Cheese it!” yelled Kalispel. “Get out quick, or I’ll change my mind.”
Sloan fled, and Kalispel returned to his work. But often his hand dropped listlessly and his busy mind cogitated the strangeness, the mystery, the terror, and the glory of love. Kalispel knew what yearning for a girl’s lips meant. He knew, and hated himself while he confessed it, that he would be madly glad for Sydney Blair’s kisses, even though he had to share them with other men. But his portion seemed more bitter than that. For Sydney surely despised him now. She could not but believe that he was in love with the dance-hall girl.
Perhaps such trend of thought had more to do with Kalispel’s impotent rage than poor Sloan’s predicament. At any rate, he worked himself into one of his cool, reckless, dangerous states, and towards sunset he left his cabin and paced swiftly down the trail.
As he passed Blair’s cabin Sydney came out on the porch, with a pan or dish in her hands. She wore a blue gingham apron, her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and she looked bewitching. Kalispel was in a mood for anything. He would confront her, make her furious or sick or something, cost what it might. Sloan’s miserable love, so devastating and all-powerful, had called to his own.
Kalispel went up on the porch, to Sydney’s amaze. He had never done that before. Her violet eyes, suddenly dilating, appeared to search his face for signs of intoxication.
“Where’s your dad?” asked Kalispel.
“I don’t know. He left in a huff.”
“How are things goin’?”
“They could not be worse....But as Dad is out—please——”
“Please rustle, eh? Ump-umm. I’m hopin’ you’ll ask me to supper.”
She laughed contemptuously. “You flatter yourself, Mr. Emerson.”
“Do you expect to be alone?”
“Yes. Dad will not come back. And I don’t care.... Oh, I hate the way things are turning out.”
“Tell me, Sydney.”
“No. You may be Dad’s friend. He thinks so. But you are certainly not mine.”
“Is Leavitt cornin’ over tonight?”
“I’d like to lie to you. But he is not.”
“An’ you’ll be alone till late?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like it a damn bit,” declared Kalispel, forcibly.
“You don’t! As if it were any of your business,” she returned, and again her mocking little laugh scorned him.
“Wal, take your choice,” said Kalispel, with the chill in his voice. “Either you let me come back here or I’ll drag your father out of that gamblin’ joint an’ beat him so he’ll be laid up for a spell.”
“You cannot mean that—that last,” she protested.
“I shore do.”
“You would hurt Dad?”
“Hurt him? Isn’t he hurtin’ you more an’ more? Isn’t he slippin’ more every day? isn’t he leavin’ you alone for this slick-tongued Leavitt to——”
“Yes,” she interposed hurriedly. “But that is no reason for violence. Your kindness is misplaced, Mr. Emerson. You are not my champion.”
“Not with your consent, I shore can see. But I am, anyhow.”
“You are, in—in spite of my scorn for you?”
“In spite of that....I’ve had a rotten deal, Sydney. From life, from luck, from this liar, Leavitt—from you. But deep as it all has sunk into me, I’m still a man. An’ I’m goin’ to raise hell around these diggin’s pretty pronto.”
“In my behalf, Sir Galahad?”
“Aw, Sydney, that doesn’t become you!” he ejaculated, reproachfully. “Scorn me all you want, but don’t be mean yourself.”
“I declare—you are the most amazing person. I simply cannot understand you.”
“Wal, that’s because I’m simple an’ honest. An’ you’re deep an’ deceitful. You’re a woman. You don’t play fair.... But as always we get into a fight. I’ll be goin’. Make your choice. Do I come back here or——”
“Very well, you may come. I prefer even your presence to having my poor, misguided dad beaten.”
“Oh no. You can’t say cuttin’ things. Not at all!... All right, I’ll come, unless I can persuade your dad to,” replied Kalispel, and he leaped off the steps and strode away, smarting under her gibe, sick with his impotence. Yet as he recalled that last unfathomable gaze, his nerves seemed to quiver. When she hated him so flagrantly why did she look at him like that? It seemed as if some part of her personality was in conflict with another. But whatever complexity of emotion ruled her, the effect on Kalispel only added to his somber state. He felt the old swamping wave roll over him—the need to drown his woe in drink. As he could not resort to that, he ceased to rail against passion and bitterness. He was just Kalispel Emerson, kicked by fate, and he could not stay the inevitableness of things.
He went into the Chinaman’s little shop and passed some time over a biscuit and a cup of coffee. Then at half after six o’clock he wended his somber way toward Borden’s dance-hall, it was the hour when fewest of Thunder City’s thousands were abroad, yet there were enough of the motley crew to cause Kalispel to take to the center of the street. The yellow lights cast their flare out into the night; music thrummed and beat somewhere; the saloon emitted a ceaseless hum; the smell of smoke and sawdust and rum filled the drowsy summer air.
Kalispel sensed events. He could no more stave off the ominous violence of the time and the place than he could the fire in his spirit. Restraint and resistance seemed spent.
“Wal, things happen this way,” he muttered. “Just now I wouldn’t budge a step to avoid Leavitt or Borden.”
The music-hall building occupied considerable space, and as it was only one story high, the diningroom, kitchen, and other rooms were on the ground floor. Kalispel presented himself at the door of the dining-room. Half a dozen young women were at supper, but Nugget was not with them.
“Evenin’, girls. Where’s that golden-headed Nugget?”
“She just left the table,” replied one of them. “Down the hall, last room on the right. But she don’t receive gentlemen in her budwar.” The last sentence had something of a sneer in it.
Kalispel thanked the girl, but made no other reply. He found the narrow dark hall, an
d at length reached the end and knocked.
“Who’s there?” came the answer.
“It’s me, Nugget.”
“So I hear. But who’s me?”
“Kalispel.”
The little door swung open to let him step into a small room, well lighted and furnished. Nugget welcomed him with glad eyes.
“Howdy, cowboy,” she said, gayly, as she closed the door. Then as she observed him more closely: “Kalispel, what’s wrong? Oh, you look——”
He reached for her with powerful hand and pulled her close, to peer down into the startled face.
“For two bits I’d wring your white neck.”
“Why, Kalispel!—you’re drunk!” she gasped.
“Nugget, you’ve seen too many drunken men to make a mistake about me. No, I’m sober, an’ as mad as I’m sober.”
“Mad!—At—me?” she faltered, her hands catching at his arms.
“Wal, I reckon it’s you. I’ve a mind to beat you good, drag you out of this hell-hole, an’ shoot it up proper.”
“Oh, my friend, you wouldn’t—hurt me!” she cried. “What have I done?”
“You’ve played fast an’ loose with my pard.”
“Dick—I did not. I played square with him. Poor boy! He wanted to marry me.”
“He’s crazy about you.”
“Dick will get over that.”
“I reckon not. If I thought so, I wouldn’t be here after you. I don’t get over my case.”
“After—me?”
“Yes, after you,” he replied, giving her an ungentle shake. “Nugget, you’re going to break Dick’s heart.”
“Kal, don’t—don’t hurt me,” she begged, like a child. “I can’t stand to be beat. That’s why I ran away from home.—Choke me—shoot me—if you think I deserve it. But don’t——”
“Do you care for this boy?”
“No! No!—Not any more than I do for you,” she protested.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m your big brother.”
“Oh, I know that!”
“Wal, he loves you, too wonderful to...Nugget, don’t lie to me. You love this boy?”
“I—I like him terribly,” she sobbed. “But I don’t want to—to get him into trouble with these men.”
“He’s ruined now. An’ we’ve got to save him. Put some clothes on. I’m takin’ you to meet him.”
“Where is he?”
“He’ll wait at the bridge.”
“Fetch him here—to my room. I’d keel over if—I went with you.”
As Kalispel released the girl she sank on the bed, weak and white, with her blue eyes fixed in tragic solemnity upon him.
Kalispel ran out into the alley, and had almost reached the street when he remembered that such hasty procedure was perilous for a man with enemies. Resuming his habitual vigilance, he went on across the street and down to the bridge. Dick loomed out of the darkness.
“Pard, I was afraid she wouldn’t come,” he said, dejectedly.
“Come on, idiot. It’s all right. An’ if you open your face, I’ll punch it,” growled Kalispel.
In a very few minutes he and Dick entered Nugget’s room and closed the door. She had not moved since Kalispel’s departure. But there had come a subtle change in her.
“Nugget,” began Sloan, huskily.
“Don’t call me that. My name is Ruth,” she replied as she slipped off the bed to confront him.
“All right... Ruth,” said the young man, hopefully.
They forgot Kalispel. They stood with glances locked, tense in that uncertain moment, searching each other’s souls. It was the girl who swayed. Sloan caught her to his breast.
“Oh, Dick! I do love—you for wanting to—to marry me,” she whispered, brokenly.
“Darlin’, there’s only one way to save me.”
“Don’t—don’t make me!”
“Kiss me!” he demanded, emboldened by her entreaty.
She flung her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his. Kalispel saw the tears streaming from under her closed eyelids. And then she was looking up at him, as beautiful as any woman could be, transfigured.
“Mad boy!... Oh, why do you love me?” she whispered.
“I just do.”
“Can’t you get over it?”
“Never.”
“Borden will be wild,” she whispered, wavering.
“Does he own you?”
“He thinks he does. Kalispel will have to kill him. And that——”
“Enough. Say you will leave—this place.”
“Oh, if I only dared!”
“Say you will! Or I’ll carry you out of here—this minute.”
“Yes. I—I will come.”
“Say you will marry me!”
“If—nothing—else will do.”
“Nug—Ruth, darlin’, you leave here right now. Pack your things. I’ll help. You can have my tent. It’s quite comfortable—board floor an’ all. You can keep house for me while I dig gold for you. I’ll sleep at my neighbor’s. An’ then the very first parson who comes will marry us.... I’ll make my fortune here. Then we’ll go far away. My parents are dead. I have no one to look out for....You’ll be my wife!”
Kalispel stepped out and softly closed the door.
“By heaven! there’s one good mark for Kalispel!” he whispered.
On the street he searched for Blair. Eventually Kalispel located him in the most disreputable gambling-hell in the gold camp. He was already under the influence of drink and the elation of winning. Blair was a poor gambler for many reasons, but his chief fault was to lose his head when fortune smiled. Kalispel surveyed the room and then approached the table to lean over and whisper in Blair’s ear.
“Come home soon as you start losin’. Hell to pay!”
“Huh? ... Oh yes—all right—all right,” returned Blair, slowly comprehending.
Kalispel went out. “Wouldn’t do for me to stay down town tonight,” he soliloquized as he made his way through the noisy throng. He was like a man that could see in the dark, and on all sides at once. The atmosphere of the gold town seemed charged with fatality for him. It was, for all these gold-grubbers and parasites. Mirth, song, and guitar, the discordant squeak of fiddles, the gay, soft murmuring inside and the coarse roar outside—these belied the truth that only a step away from this life loomed defeat, ruin, death.
Kalispel felt this, and deeply his relation to it. He had drawn the Blairs into the vortex of this maelstrom, and he doubted that he could avert a tragic end. As for Sydney, he was in a state of desperation. She had seemed at first so self-contained, so strong and fine and balanced. But who could understand a woman? Sydney might do anything.
As Kalispel left town the moon came out above the bold black dome of Thunder Mountain. Its hue was orange and it had a weird, threatening aspect. The whole dark mass of the slope lay in shadow, looming as always, menacing as always, waiting. And on the moment a low hollow rumble pealed from subterranean depths.
“Thunder an’ grumble, old man,” muttered Kalispel, grimly. “You’re not foolin’ me. You’ll never bury me an’ my gold.”
When he ascended the steps of the Blair porch Sydney was not in sight. Lighting a cigarette, he paced to and fro, heavily, so she would hear his footballs. The door was open and a faint light shone in the far room. But she did not come out. He was about to call when he heard quick steps on the ground. He turned to see Sydney appear in the moonlight, coming from the trail. His pulses leaped again. Slowly she ascended to the porch, leaned against the post, panting. He approached her.
“Somebody chase you?” he queried, sharply. “Don’t you know enough yet to stay away from that gold camp after dark?”
She did not answer. Kalispel stepped closer, to peer into her face. The moon shone at her back, so that all he could descry in the shadow were two dark eyes that electrified him.
“Where you been?” he demanded.
“I followed you,” she replied, as swiftly, and the
low, rich voice shook.
“Where?”
“Downtown. Never lost sight of you for a moment.”
“Wal, I’ll be dog-gonedl...Flatterin’, Sydney,—but I don’t savvy.”
“You may call it flattering if you like.”
“Where’d you follow me?”
“To Borden’s dance-hall.”
“An’ then what?”
“I followed you in.”
“My Gawd!... Sydney, what possessed you?—That joint! To go in it!”
“I was possessed, yes, of several things—the only one of which need concern you is that I had a determination to know.”
“Ah-huh. I’m some flabbergasted....Wal?”
“I went through to the dining-room,” she continued, hurriedly. “Those girls!—I asked where Kalispel Emerson had gone. They looked queer. But one of them laughed and said: ‘He’s gone back to Nugget’s room. Down the hall—last on the right!’ ”
“Then—what?” gasped Kalispel.
“I ran out. On the way up street I thought I’d make a good job of it. I went into all the—the gambling-places and asked for my father. But he had not been seen in any one of them tonight. Oh, I am so—so frightened.”
“Wal, you needn’t be—about him, anyway. I found him in Flanigan’s. He was all right. He’d won a lot. I told him to quit soon as he began to lose. Told him there was hell to pay—which wasn’t no lie. He’ll be home pronto.”
She murmured something in relief. Then silence fell. Kalispel threw away his cigarette, in a slow, uncertain gesture which betrayed the conflict of his thoughts. The yellow moon, the black slope, the pale squares of tents, the faint roar of the stream, and the fainter hum of life in the town—all seemed unreal to Kalispel, like the objects remembered from a dream.
But as he attended once more to the girl he found she was real—so real and intense that his consciousness fixed sternly on one obvious fact—her conviction of his utter shamelessness.
That did not greatly shock Kalispel, because he knew his innocence and could prove it, but what staggered him was her motive in wanting to determine this supposed guilt of his.
“Miss Blair, your trailin’ me ’pears a powerful strange proceedin’,” he drawled, stifling his agitation and playing for time. She would commit herself.
