“How come you knowed me?” I inquired suspiciously, because I hadn’t never been in Teton Gulch before, and he says: “Well, I’ve heard tell of Breckinridge Elkins, and when I seen you, I figgered you must be him, because I don’t see how they can be two men in the world that big. By the way, there’s a friend of yore’n upstairs — Blink Wiltshaw, from War Paint. I’ve heered him brag about knowin’ you personal. He’s upstairs now, fourth door from the stair-head, on the left.”
Now that there news interested me, because Blink was the most persistent of all them young mavericks which was trying to spark Dolly Rixby. Just the night before I left for Yavapai, I catched him coming out of her house, and was fixing to sweep the street with him when Dolly come out and stopped me and made us shake hands.
It suited me fine for him to be in Teton Gulch, or anywheres just so he warn’t no-wheres nigh Dolly Rixby, so I thought I’d pass the time of day with him.
I went upstairs and knocked on the door, and bam! went a gun inside and a .45 slug ripped through the door and taken a nick out of my off- ear. Getting shot in the ear always did irritate me, so without waiting for no more exhibitions of hospitality, I give voice to my displeasure in a deafening beller and knocked the door off its hinges and busted into the room over its ruins.
For a second I didn’t see nobody, but then I heard a kind of gurgle going on, and happened to remember that the door seemed kind of squishy underfoot when I tromped over it, so I knowed that whoever was in the room had got pinned under the door when I knocked it down.
So I reached under it and got him by the collar and hauled him out, and shore enough it was Blink Wiltshaw. He was limp as a lariat, and glassy-eyed and pale, and was still kind of trying to shoot me with his six-shooter when I taken it away from him.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” I demanded sternly, dangling him by the collar with one hand, whilst shaking him till his teeth rattled. “Didn’t Dolly make us shake hands? What you mean by tryin’ to ‘sasserinate me through a hotel door?”
“Lemme down, Breck,” he gasped. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought it was Rattlesnake Harrison comin’ after my gold.”
So I sot him down. He grabbed a jug of licker and taken a swig, and his hand shook so he spilled half of it down his neck.
“Well?” I demanded. “Ain’t you goin’ to offer me a snort, dern it?”
“Excuse me, Breckinridge,” he apolergized. “I’m so derned jumpy I dunno what I’m doin’. You see them buckskin pokes?” says he, p’inting at some bags on the bed. “Them is plumb full of nuggets. I been minin’ up the Gulch, and I hit a regular bonanza the first week. But it ain’t doin’ me no good.”
“What you mean?” I demanded.
“These mountains is full of outlaws,” says he. “They robs, and murders every man which makes a strike. The stagecoach has been stuck up so often nobody sends their dust out on it no more. When a man makes a pile he sneaks out through the mountains at night, with his gold on pack-mules. I aimed to do that last night. But them outlaws has got spies all over the camp, and I know they got me spotted. Rattlesnake Harrison’s their chief, and he’s a ring-tailed he-devil. I been squattin’ over this here gold with my pistol in fear and tremblin’, expectin’ ’em to come right into camp after me. I’m dern nigh loco!”
And he shivered and cussed kind of whimpery, and taken another dram, and cocked his pistol and sot there shaking like he’d saw a ghost or two.
“You got to help me, Breckinridge,” he said desperately. “Youtake this here gold out for me, willya? The outlaws don’t know you. You could hit the old Injun path south of the camp and foller it to Hell-Wind Pass. The Chawed-Ear — Wahpeton stage goes through there about sun-down. You could put the gold on the stage there, and they’d take it on to Wahpeton. Harrison wouldn’t never think of holdin’ it up after it left Hell-Wind. They always holds it up this side of the Pass.”
“What I want to risk my neck for you for?” I demanded bitterly, memories of Dolly Rixby rising up before me. “If you ain’t got the guts to tote out yore own gold—”
“T’ain’t altogether the gold, Breck,” says he. “I’m tryin’ to git married, and—”
“Married?” says I. “Here? In Teton Gulch? To a gal in Teton Gulch?”
“Married to a gal in Teton Gulch,” he avowed. “I was aimin’ to git hitched tomorrer, but they ain’t a preacher or justice of the peace in camp to tie the knot. But her uncle the Reverant Rembrandt Brockton is a circuit rider, and he’s due to pass through Hell-Wind on his way to Wahpeton today. I was aimin’ to sneak out last night, hide in the hills till the stage come through, then put the gold on the stage and bring Brother Rembrandt back with me. But yesterday I learnt Harrison’s spies was watchin’ me, and I’m scairt to go. Now Brother Rembrandt will go on to Wahpeton, not knowin’ he’s needed here, and no tellin’ when I’ll be able to git married—”
“Hold on,” I said hurried, doing some quick thinking. I didn’t want this here wedding to fall through. The more Blink was married to some gal in Teton, the less he could marry Dolly Rixby.
“Blink,” I said, grasping his hand warmly, “let it never be said that a Elkins ever turned down a friend in distress. I’ll take yore gold to Hell-Wind Pass and bring back Brother Rembrandt.”
Blink fell onto my neck and wept with joy. “I’ll never forgit this, Breckinridge,” says he, “and I bet you won’t neither! My hoss and pack-mule are in the stables behind the saloon.”
“I don’t need no pack-mule,” I says. “Cap’n Kidd can pack the dust easy.”
Cap’n Kidd was getting fed out in the corral next to the hotel. I went out there and got my saddle-bags, which is a lot bigger’n most saddle-bags, because all my plunder has to be made to fit my size. They’re made outa three- ply elkskin, stitched with rawhide thongs, and a wildcat couldn’t claw his way out of ‘em.
I noticed quite a bunch of men standing around the corral looking at Cap’n Kidd, but thought nothing of it, because he is a hoss which naturally attracts attention. But whilst I was getting my saddle-bags, a long lanky cuss with long yaller whiskers come up and said, says he: “Is that yore hoss in the corral?”
If he ain’t he ain’t nobody’s,” I says.
“Well, he looks a whole lot like a hoss that was stole off my ranch six months ago,” he said, and I seen ten or fifteen hard-looking hombres gathering around me. I laid down my saddle-bags sudden-like and reached for my guns, when it occurred to me that if I had a fight there I might git arrested and it would interfere with me bringing Brother Rembrandt in for the wedding.
“If that there is yore hoss,” I said, “you ought to be able to lead him out of that there corral.”
“Shore I can,” he says with a oath. “And what’s more, I aim’ta.”
He looked at me suspiciously, but he taken up a rope and clumb the fence and started toward Cap’n Kidd which was chawing on a block of hay in the middle of the corral. Cap’n Kidd throwed up his head and laid back his ears and showed his teeth, and Jake stopped sudden and turned pale.
“I — I don’t believe that there is my hoss, after all!” says he.
“Put that lasso on him!” I roared, pulling my right-hand gun. “You say he’s yore’n; I say he’s mine. One of us is a liar and a hoss-thief, and I aim to prove which. Gwan, before I festoons yore system with lead polka-dots!”
He looked at me and he looked at Cap’n Kidd, and he turned bright green all over. He looked agen at my .45 which I now had cocked and p’inted at his long neck, which his adam’s apple was going up and down like a monkey on a pole, and he begun to aidge toward Cap’n Kidd again, holding the rope behind him and sticking out one hand.
“Whoa, boy,” he says kind of shudderingly. “Whoa — good old feller — nice hossie — whoa, boy — ow!”
He let out a awful howl as Cap’n Kidd made a snap and bit a chunk out of his hide. He turned to run but Cap’n Kidd wheeled and let fly both heels which caught Jake in the seat of the britches, and his s
hriek of despair was horrible to hear as he went head-first through the corral fence into a hoss-trough on the other side. From this he ariz dripping water, blood and profanity, and he shook a quivering fist at me and croaked: “You derned murderer! I’ll have yore life for this!”
“I don’t hold no conversation with hoss-thieves,” I snorted, and picked up my saddle-bags and stalked through the crowd which give back in a hurry.
I taken the saddle-bags up to Blink’s room, and told him about Jake, thinking he’d be amoosed, but got a case of aggers again, and said: “That was one of Harrison’s men! He meant to take yore hoss. It’s a old trick, and honest folks don’t dare interfere. Now they got you spotted! What’ll you do?”
“Time, tide and a Elkins waits for no man!” I snorted, dumping the gold into the saddle-bags. “If that yaller-whiskered coyote wants any trouble, he can git a bellyfull. Don’t worry, yore gold will be safe in my saddle-bags. It’s as good as in the Wahpeton stage right now. And by midnight I’ll be back with Brother Rembrandt Brockton to hitch you up with his niece.”
“Don’t yell so loud,” begged Blink. “The cussed camp’s full of spies. Some of ’em may be downstairs now, listenin’.”
“I warn’t speakin’ above a whisper,” I said indignantly.
“That bull’s beller may pass for a whisper on Bear Creek,” says he, wiping off the sweat, “but I bet they can hear it from one end of the Gulch to the other, at least.”
It’s a pitable sight to see a man with a case of the scairts; I shook hands with him and left him pouring red licker down his gullet like it was water, and I swung the saddle-bags over my shoulder and went downstairs, and the bar-keep leaned over the bar and whispered to me: “Look out for Jake Roman! He was in here a minute ago, lookin’ for trouble. He pulled out just before you come down, but he won’t be forgittin’ what yore hoss done to him!”
“Not when he tries to set down, he won’t,” I agreed, and went on out to the corral, and they was a crowd of men watching Cap’n Kidd eat his hay, and one of ’em seen me and hollered: “Hey, boys, here comes the giant! He’s goin’ to saddle that man-eatin’ monster! Hey, Bill! Tell the boys at the bar!”
And here come a whole passel of fellers running out of all the saloons, and they lined the corral fence solid, and started laying bets whether I’d git the saddle on Cap’n Kidd or git my brains kicked out. I thought miners must all be crazy. They ought’ve knowed I was able to saddle my own hoss.
Well, I saddled him and throwed on the saddle-bags and clumb aboard, and he pitched about ten jumps like he always does when I first fork him — t’warn’t nothing, but them miners hollered like wild Injuns. And when he accidentally bucked hisself and me through the fence and knocked down a section of it along with fifteen men which was setting on the top-rail, the way they howled you’d of thought something terrible had happened. Me and Cap’n Kidd don’t generally bother about gates. We usually makes our own through whatever happens to be in front of us. But them miners is a weakly breed, because as I rode out of town I seen the crowd dipping four or five of ’em into a hoss- trough to bring ’em to, on account of Cap’n Kidd having accidentally tromped on ‘em.
Well, I rode out of the gulch and up the ravine to the south, and come out into the high timbered country, and hit the old Injun trail Blink had told me about. It warn’t traveled much. I didn’t meet nobody after I left the Gulch. I figgered to hit Hell-Wind Pass at least a hour before sun-down which would give me plenty of time. Blink said the stage passed through there about sun- down. I’d have to bring back Brother Rembrandt on Cap’n Kidd, I reckoned, but that there hoss can carry double and still out-run and out-last any other hoss in the State of Nevada. I figgered on getting back to Teton about midnight or maybe a little later.
After I’d went several miles I come to Apache Canyon, which was a deep, narrer gorge, with a river at the bottom which went roaring and foaming along betwixt rock walls a hundred and fifty feet high. The old trail hit the rim at a place where the canyon warn’t only about seventy foot wide, and somebody had felled a whopping big pine tree on one side so it fell acrost and made a foot- bridge, where a man could walk acrost. They’d once been a gold strike in Apache Canyon, and a big camp there, but now it was plumb abandoned and nobody lived anywheres near it.
I turned east and follered the rim for about half a mile. Here I come into a old wagon road which was just about growed up with saplings now, but it run down into a ravine into the bed of the canyon, and they was a bridge acrost the river which had been built during the days of the gold rush. Most of it had done been washed away by head-rises, but a man could still ride a horse across what was left. So I done so and rode up a ravine on the other side, and come out on high ground again.
I’d rode a few hundred yards past the ravine when somebody said: “Hey!” and I wheeled with both guns in my hands. Out of the bresh s’antered a tall gent in a long frock tail coat and broad-brimmed hat.
“Who air you and what the hell you mean by hollerin’ ‘Hey!’ at me?” I demanded courteously, p’inting my guns at him. A Elkins is always perlite.
“I am the Reverant Rembrandt Brockton, my good man,” says he. “I am on my way to Teton Gulch to unite my niece and a young man of that camp in the bonds of holy matrimony.”
“The he — you don’t say!” I says. “Afoot?”
“I alit from the stage-coach at — ah — Hades-Wind Pass,” says he. “Some very agreeable cowboys happened to be awaiting the stage there, and they offered to escort me to Teton.”
“How come you knowed yore niece was wantin’ to be united in acrimony?” I ast.
“The cowboys informed me that such was the case,” says he.
“Where-at are they now?” I next inquore.
“The mount with which they supplied me went lame a little while ago,” says he. “They left me here while they went to procure another from a near-by ranch-house.”
“I dunno who’d have a ranch anywheres near here,” I muttered. “They ain’t got much sense leavin’ you here by yore high lonesome.”
“You mean to imply there is danger?” says he, blinking mildly at me.
“These here mountains is lousy with outlaws which would as soon kyarve a preacher’s gullet as anybody’s,” I said, and then I thought of something else. “Hey!” I says. “I thought the stage didn’t come through the Pass till sun- down?”
“Such was the case,” says he. “But the schedule has been altered.”
“Heck!” I says. “I was aimin’ to put this here gold on it which my saddle- bags is full of. Now I’ll have to take it back to Teton with me. Well, I’ll bring it out tomorrer and catch the stage then. Brother Rembrandt, I’m Breckinridge Elkins, of Bear Creek, and I come out here to meet you and escort you back to the Gulch, so’s you could unite yore niece and Blink Wiltshaw in the holy bounds of alimony. Come on. We’ll ride double.”
“But I must await my cowboy friends!” he said. “Ah, here they come now!”
I looked over to the east and seen about fifteen men ride into sight out of the bresh and move toward us. One was leading a hoss without no saddle onto it.
“Ah, my good friends!” beamed Brother Rembrandt. “They have procured a mount for me, even as they promised.”
He hauled a saddle out of the bresh, and says: “Would you please saddle my horse for me when they get here? I should be delighted to hold your rifle while you did so.”
I started to hand him my Winchester, when the snap of a twig under a hoss’s hoof made me whirl quick. A feller had just rode out of a thicket about a hundred yards south of me, and he was raising a Winchester to his shoulder. I recognized him instantly. If us Bear Creek folks didn’t have eyes like a hawk, we’d never live to git growed. It was Jake Roman!
Our Winchesters banged together. His lead fanned my ear and mine knocked him end-ways out of his saddle.
“Cowboys, hell!” I roared. “Them’s Harrison’s outlaws! I’ll save you, Brother Rembrandt!”
I swooped him up with one arm and gouged Cap’n Kidd with the spurs and he went from there like a thunderbolt with its tail on fire. Them outlaws come on with wild yells. I ain’t in the habit of running from people, but I was afeared they might do the Reverant harm if it come to a close fight, and if he stopped a hunk of lead, Blink might not git to marry his niece, and might git disgusted and go back to War Paint and start sparking Dolly Rixby again.
I was heading back for the canyon, aiming to make a stand in the ravine if I had to, and them outlaws was killing their hosses trying to git to the bend of the trail ahead of me, and cut me off. Cap’n Kidd was running with his belly to the ground, but I’ll admit Brother Rembrandt warn’t helping me much. He was laying acrost my saddle with his arms and laigs waving wildly because I hadn’t had time to set him comfortable, and when the horn jobbed him in the belly he uttered some words I wouldn’t of expected to hear spoke by a minister of the gospel.
Guns begun to crack and lead hummed past us, and Brother Rembrandt twisted his head around and screamed: “Stop that shootin’, you — sons of — ! You’ll hit me!”
I thought it was kind of selfish of Brother Rembrandt not to mention me, too, but I said: “T’ain’t no use to remonstrate with them skunks, Reverant. They ain’t got no respeck for a preacher even.”
But to my amazement the shooting stopped, though them bandits yelled louder’n ever and flogged their cayuses. But about that time I seen they had me cut off from the lower canyon crossing, so I wrenched Cap’n Kidd into the old Injun trace and headed straight for the canyon rim as hard as he could hammer, with the bresh lashing and snapping around us and slapping Brother Rembrandt in the face when it whipped back. The outlaws yelled and wheeled in behind us, but Cap’n Kidd drawed away from them with every stride, and the canyon rim loomed just ahead of us.
“Pull up, you jack-eared son of Baliol!” howled Brother Rembrandt. “You’ll go over the edge!”
“Be at ease, Reverant,” I reassured him. “We’re goin’ over the log.”
“Lord have mercy on my soul!” he squalled, and shet his eyes and grabbed a stirrup leather with both hands, and then Cap’n Kidd went over that log like thunder rolling on Jedgment Day.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 220
