The man-handling had driven the drink out of him.
“Forget it, King,” he said. “I’m sorry I sassed yu—reckon I must ‘a’ bin lit up. What yu want me to do?”
“Find yore bronc an’ get back to the ranch for now,” Burdette said. “An’ keep yore trap shut, or …”
He did not voice the threat, nor did he holster his pistol until the man had disappeared in the shadows. Then he returned to the front of the saloon, mounted his horse, and drove the animal mercilessly in the direction of the Circle B. By the time he reached it the poor brute’s sides were deeply scored and the rider’s spurs dripped blood. In the living-room he found Mart, his big body sprawled in a chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a bottle of whisky beside him. He greeted his elder brother with a grin.
“Back early, huh?” he said, and then the scowl on King’s face apprised him that something was wrong. “What’s eatin’ yu?”
“How far off was Green when yu fired?”
“Little over a hundred yards, I’d say.”
“An’ yu missed ! ” King said contemptuously.
“Missed nothin’! I saw him tumble into the canyon; must ‘a’ broke his neck anyways.”
“He didn’t; yore bullet creased him, an’ he fell into the long grass on the rim. He rides into town just as they’re goin’ to string up Luce, an’ that lets him out; yu can’t hang a man for murder when the victim is standin’ by. I guess the C P outfit an’ half o’ Windy is laughin’ at us right now.”
The big man stared at him. “It ain’t possible; I saw him drop,” he argued.
King’s gesture was not complimentary. “Mart,” he said, “all the brains yu got would go into a nutshell, an’ yu wouldn’t have to take the kernel out neither.”
“Well, it warn’t my plan,” the other grumbled.
“Nothin’ wrong with that, but I thought yu could shoot,” his brother sneered. “How close do yu have to be?”
The taunt sank in, as the speaker intended it should. Mart’s heavy face was flushed, his lips in an ugly pout. “I’ll get him,” he said thickly. “I’ll call him down.”
King’s laugh was not pleasant. “Mebbe Whitey was just unlucky,” he said satirically.
“Not that way,” Mart explained. “He’s too good for me with a six-gun, but with these I…”
He flexed the fingers of his huge hands, clutching the empty air as though he had already the puncher’s throat within them, while the biceps in the gorilla-like arms bulged beneath the blue flannel shirt. In brains and dexterity King was the master, but when it came to a question of brute force …..
“That’s certainly an idea, but let it ride a spell,” King said. “Mebbe there’s a better trail out.”
“Suits me,” Mart said. “Yu on’y gotta say the word. Saw that Purdie gal in town s’mornin’.
She’s sprouted up into a mighty good-looker; I’ve a mind to…”
The elder man flashed round on him. “Lay a finger on her an’ I’ll fill yore fat carcase with lead,” he said fiercely. “She ain’t for yu.”
Mart’s eyes opened. “No call to get het up,” he said mildly. “Yo’re a reg’lar hawg though. What ‘bout Lu Lavigne? That dame is liable to put a pill into yu if yu play tricks.”
“I’ve got a use for Nan Purdie,” King replied.
“Me too,” Mart said coarsely, and laughed.
“Then yu better forget it; I meant what I said. Bein’ my brother won’t save yu,” King rasped, and went out of the room.
“He’d do it too, damn him,” Mart muttered. “Well, she’s a pretty nice piece, but … Wonder how in hell I missed that cussed cowpunch?”
Chapter XIV
THE C P foreman had mounted his horse and was pacing away from the corral when Yago came up.
“Which way yu headin’, Jim?” he asked.
“Mind yore own damn business,” Sudden grinned. “Aimin’ to ride herd on me?”
“I ain’t, but if yu don’t show up, it’d be useful to know where to look,” Bill told him.
“That’s so,” the foreman agreed soberly. “Never can tell in these stirrin’ times. I’m pointin’ south-west—ain’t looked over that part o’ the range yet.”
“She’s pretty wild—not much good for grazin’,” Yago told him. “Dangerous country, I’d call it.”
Sudden nodded and smiled; he knew his friend was warning him. Passing the ranchhouse, he struck off to the right, climbing the lower slope of the mountain. At first he followed a faint trail, but presently left it and headed for a point he had already picked out—a clump of tall pines which rose above the surrounding timber. He noted that the feed was sparse and poor in quality; there were few cattle about. The pines proved to be further away than he had thought, masses of rock from the peak above and thickets of prickly pear making detours inevitable.
When at length he came in sight of it he was surprised to find a habitation. It was a tiny place, tucked in among the trees, and built of unbarked logs. A hole in one corner of the earthed roof served as a chimney, and from this a thin twist of smoke was ascending. From the small pole corral behind the hut a burro brayed, and Sudden’s mount responded with a friendly whicker. Instantly a man showed himself in the open doorway, clutching a rifle, and peering suspiciously from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Hold on thar or I’ll drill yer. What yer want?” he barked.
The puncher flung up a hand, palm outwards, to signify that his intentions were peaceful, and came steadily on. Evidently the man now recognized him, for he lowered his weapon and gave vent to a throaty chuckle.
“Yu, mister, is it?” he said. “Yu gotta s’cuse me—my danged eyesight ain’t as good as it useter be. Rest yore saddle—I got some coffee boilin’.”
It was the old prospector, California. The visitor got down, trailed his reins, and seated himself on a rude bench outside the shack door. In a few moments his host joined him, bearing two tin mugs of steaming, black beverage.
“I’m out o’ milk, but there’s more sweetenin’ if yu want her,” he apologized.
Sudden sampled the liquid and pronounced it excellent, which brought a satisfied grin to the old man’s wrinkled features.
“Guess I c’n make coffee,” he said. “Oughta be able to —musta made enough to float a fleet in my time.”
“First look I’ve had at this part of our range,” the foreman remarked. “Didn’t know anyone was livin’ up here. What yu got—a quarter-section?”
“No, I ain’t a ‘nester’—can’t be bothered with land nohow,” California explained. “Why, I’m liable to pull stakes an’ drift any time. Purdie gimme leave to run up the shack an’ scratch around. It’s nice an’ quiet up here.”
The visitor smiled; he was listening to an incessant, rumbling roar, like that of heavy seas breaking on a shingly shore, but without the sucking swish of the backwash.
“Thunder?” he queried.
“Aye, li’l old Thunder River,” the miner grinned. “Fella gits so useter that he don’t notice it. Yu oughta hear her when snow flies on Stormy. I’ve sat for hours watchin’ the water rippin’, tearin’, an’ thrashing its way through the Sluice; she must be just lousy with gold.”
“What makes yu think that?” Sudden asked.
“Don’t think—I’m dead shore,” California retorted. “Anyone as knows gold would be.
Why, even some of them lunkheads down yonder”—he jerked a derisive thumb in the direction of Windy—“has got their suspicions. Lookee, yu can git `colour’ most anywheres on the banks o’ the river, an’ there’s patches of alluvial gold an’ small `pockets’ on the slopes o’ the valley, but it’s all surface stuff—go deep, an’ yu git nothin’ but a hole. Now, where’s it come from? Didn’t fall out’n the skies, I reckon. No, sir, its bin washed down, an’ I figure that at one time mebbe a thousand years ago, before the stream had cut itself a channel to run in—this yer valley was periodically flooded an’ the fine gold was deposited then. I ain’t
no scientist, but that’s the way I dope her out.”
“Sounds likely,” the puncher admitted. “But if it’s so, all yu gotta do is trace the source o’ the river”
The prospector emitted a cackle. “Yo’re pickin’ a job, I knows of over two score—some of ‘em underground springs,” he said. ” ‘Sides, how’d yu know where the water picks up the dust? No, yu can’t get at it thataway.” His little eyes gleamed cunningly. “But she’s here, on Ol’ Stormy, just waitin’ to be found.”
“So right now we might be sittin’ atop of a gold-mine,” the foreman smiled.
“Yo’re shoutin’, though I reckon she’s higher up,” the old man returned seriously.
“Somewheres around there’s rock that’s just rotten with gold.” He read the incredulity in the listener’s face. “Yu don’t believe me?” he cried, and dived into the hut. In a moment he reappeared. “What d’yu make o’ that?” he asked triumphantly.
“That” proved to be a piece of quartz about the size of a large egg, jagged and irregular in shape, which the miner almost reverently placed on the bench between them. The puncher picked it up, marvelling at the weight until he saw that the stone was thickly veined with yellow; even a novice would have known it for what men live, and die, to obtain.
“Hell’s bells! She’s mighty near half gold,” Sudden ejaculated.
The prospector chuckled delightedly at the effect he had produced. “yessir, just around,” he agreed. “A ton o’ rock like that would put even a spendin’ fella beyond the reach o’ poverty.”
Then came the natural question: “Where’d yu find her?”
The crafty eyes twinkled. “It wouldn’t help yu none if I told yu,” California said, after a pause. “That’s `float,’… An’ there ain’t a smidgin’ o’ rock like it where ‘twas picked up. May have took hundreds o’ years to git there or bin dropped by some fella. Think o’ searchin’?”
Sudden laughed. “No, never did have the gold fever,” he said.
“If yu had yu’d never lose it,” the miner said. “Me, I bin scramblin’ round Stormy for years—like to have busted my neck a score o’ times. An’ what for? It ain’t the wealth, stranger; all the money in the world won’t make me a day younger; it’s just findin’ it.”
“An’ yu have found it?” the foreman queried.
“Mebbe I have an’ mebbe I ain’t, was the noncommittal answer. “Didn’t expect me to say, did yer?”
Sudden shook his head. “Yu’ve talked too much as it is; if a whisper o’ this got abroad in Windy … Anyways, yu can reckon me dumb.”
“Yo’re dead right, Mister, an’ I’m obliged,” the old man said. “I’m a chatterin’ of fool when I talk about gold.” The puncher swung into his saddle again, and neither he nor the miner saw the shadow that slipped from the end of the shack, slid along the corral rails, and vanished in the brush at the back. Thus safely concealed, Riley, the Circle B rider, watched the visitor depart.
His squinting eyes were popping with excitement. Told off by King Burdette to watch Green, he had hung about the C P and followed him to the prospector’s hut, where he had arrived in time to hear the major portion of the conversation and see the “specimen.”
“Sufferin’ snakes!” he muttered. “What made the old fool open up to that fella? Wonder whether he told him anythin’ ‘fore I come up? Hell! Mebbe he’s goin’ there now. I gotta see; Cal will keep.”
Hurriedly he went to where he had hidden his horse, mounted, and set out after the C P man. The necessity for keeping under cover made pace impossible, but his quarry was in no hurry, and presently he espied him. The foreman had dismounted again and was gazing on a scene which, even to the most surfeited sightseer, could not but be awe-inspiring. A giant gash in the side of the mountain, resembling the mark left by a mighty axe-blow, provided a passage for the river. Prickly pear, catclaw, and other shrubs fringed the rims of the chasm for the most part, but there were a few spaces where the very brink could be approached. In one of these Sudden was standing.
The Sluice. The name was not an inapt one for this long, narrow stone trough with its spray-splashed, almost vertical, bare walls. Leaning forward, the puncher could see where the water entered, cascading over a fall of twenty feet, snow-white and glistening with points of fire like a stream of jewels in the rays of the sun, to drop into a yeasty smother of foam and spray, and then—as though it had finished with play—to roll on through the rift with the smooth, sinuous ease of a gigantic reptile.
“She must be some sight when Stormy sheds his winter coat,” Sudden mused. He watched the fragments of froth as they eddied and swirled some forty feet below, and nodded understandingly. “Don’t ‘pear to be travellin’ fast now, but she is; fella wouldn’t have much chance in there, I reckon. Must be another fall below—that one ain’t makin’ all the racket.”
Meanwhile, Riley, having found his man, had also dismounted and was creeping up on him. Save for keeping under cover, he had no need for caution, the roar of the river drowned every sound, and the foreman had no thought of company in that wild spot. The Circle B man’s eyes were gleaming vengefully, and his brain was busy.
“Bet he’s the on’y one the ol’ fossil has yapped to,” he muttered. “With him outa the way, Cal could be made to talk. Gawd! What a chance; wish I could swing it alone, but it’s too big—I’ll have to let King in.” He looked round suspiciously as he suddenly realized that he was speaking aloud, and then he laughed. “I’m a plain damn fool,” he went on. “Why, fella could shout an’ yu wouldn’t get a whisper. Here’s where we even up for Whitey.”
He had reached the last clump of foliage between himself and his unsuspecting victim, only a few yards separating them. For a moment Riley paused, his lips drawn back in a vulpine snarl, his slitted eyes gauging the distance he had to spring. Sudden, poised almost on the edge of the chasm, was rolling a smoke, his mind mulling over what the prospector had told him. If the Burdettes learned of the mine they would stop at nothing to get possession of the C P. He had warned California not to chatter, but he knew the type. Liquor would loosen his tongue and he would boast; many a miner who had made a lucky strike had lost all, even life itself, because he could not keep his mouth closed.
He had snapped a match alight and was applying it to the cigarette between his lips when a jarring thrust from behind sent him staggering towards the abyss. For an instant he tottered, trying to regain his balance, and then, realizing that he must fall, pitched headlong. Riley, crouching above, watched the body drop like a stone and plunge into the depths. It had been easy; three long strides, a push, and the deed was done. He waited till the puncher rose to the surface, dragged out his gun and fired—twice. He saw the man in the water fling up his hands, and sink. Dropping to his knees, he waited, scanning the stream closely; there was no sign. Riley stood up; his hands were shaking.
“Reckon I fixed yu, Mister Green,” he said hoarsely. “Gotta go an’ break the bad news to King now; he’ll be some grieved—mebbe.”
At the moment that he mounted and rode away the man he believed he had murdered slid his head above water and eagerly gulped air into his aching lungs. The initial plunge into the icy stream had driven the breath from his body and he had been forced to come up immediately.
Then, though he had not heard the reports, he had seen the spit of the bullets in the water beside his head and gathered that the man above meant to make a job of it. Promptly sinking again, he swam beneath the surface, his own efforts and the powerful current taking him a considerable distance. Sudden was an expert swimmer, and water itself had no terrors for him. With his nostrils just clear he waited for the ominous “plop” of a bullet; it did not come, and he smiled grimly.
“Lucky for me I ain’t redheaded or bald—that jasper would ‘a’ got me,” he told himself.
“Wonder who it was? Mebbe California got sorry he talked so much, but I’m bettin’ it was a younger an’ stronger man gave me that jolt.”
Satisfied that the
would-be assassin had departed, he raised his head and looked about.
The dark walls between which the stream was swiftly swinging him held out no hope whatever.
Rising sheer, they presented for the first ten feet a smooth, polished surface, the work of the springtime floods.
“I’ll need wings to beat this proposition,” Sudden reflected, adding sardonically, “an’ I’m liable to get ‘em, but it’ll be too late.”
Conserving his strength for the struggle he knew must come, he let the current carry him, content just to keep afloat. Soon he noticed that the reverberating roar of the river was becoming louder; that must mean only one thing —another fall, and he knew it could not be a little one.
Desperately he searched the walls of his watery prison, but no crack or cranny affording hand-or foothold presented itself; a cat could not have climbed them. Then, as he swung round a bend, he saw a sight at which even the bravest might well have quailed.
Little more than a hundred yards ahead, the sides of the gully closed in, forming a narrow, tunnel-like passage through which the stream swept at incredible speed. Along the centre of this outlet Sudden could see a tumbled, boiling ridge of foam, tossing like the wind-worried mane of a huge white horse. He knew the meaning of that; rocks there—jagged teeth which would tear him to bits when the cruel current hurled him upon them. Even if he escaped this fate, the deafening thunder told him that it would only mean death in another form, beaten and pounded in the fury of the larger fall.
The prospect spurred the puncher to action; he now began to savagely fight the force he had hitherto submitted to, heading for the rock wall, where he hoped to find the current less powerful. It was not long before he realized that his efforts were futile. He was a strong man, his open-air life had endowed him with muscles of steel, but his soggy clothing and the numbing chill of the water werebeginning to tell, and against the terrific thrust of the torrent he was impotent. Fight as he might, he felt himself being forced nearer and nearer to that awful gully of death. Thrashing out with leaden limbs, his hand struck something, and he clutched desperately; it was a submerged needle of rock. With an effort he got his other hand to it and held on, though his arms seemed to be leaving their sockets. Conscious that he must soon let go from sheer exhaustion, he fought his way round to the up-stream side of the rock, and was immediately flattened against it. The pressure was enormous, but the position eased his aching muscles.
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