The Lost Cabin Mine

by Frederick Niven

  *CHAPTER XVII*

  _*The Coming of Mike Canlan*_

  There was a cold shiver ran in my spine at that second crack, for it waseerie to know that some live thing, man or beast, was following us upthrough the bushes.

  "It's a lion, sure thing," Donoghue said behind me, "and it's goin' atthis stalking of us darned careless, too. I wisht we could get to aclear place and give him a chance to show himself."

  "Lion?" asked I, astonished.

  "Yes--panther, that is," said Apache Kid.

  "In the phraseology of the country, that is," I suggested.

  Apache looked over his shoulder at me.

  "You are pretty cool for a tenderfoot," he remarked. "This is a badspot for us to be stalked by a beast like that. Let me come behind now,Larry," he continued. "We are getting to a clear place, I think, and hemay spring before we get out."

  "Not you," said Larry. "Just you go on ahaid and let the lad keep inbetween."

  Here the bushes thinned out considerably and when we reached this openerpart Donoghue bade us walk straight on.

  "Don't look back," said he. "Let him think we don't know he'sfollowin'. Give him a chance to cross this here glade. We'll stop justinside them further trees and if he shows himself there, we 'll get himthen, sure thing. What between men and beasts we suttingly have beenfollowed up some this trip, and I 'm gettin' tired of it. This herefollowin' up has got to end."

  But though we carried out Donoghue's suggestion, crossing the openspace, entering again on the path where it continued down-hill in theforest again, and halting there, the "lion" did not show himself.

  It was here, while standing a little space, waiting for the panther'sappearance, if panther it was that shadowed us, that Apache Kid pointeda finger at the ground before us, where a tiny trickle of water, incrossing the path, made it muddy and moist.

  "See the deer marks?" he whispered. "Neat, aren't they? This, you see,is a game trail from the hills down to the lake----"

  "No good," broke in Donoghue. "He ain't going to show himself."

  So we passed on, and soon the way became more precipitous; theunderbrush cleared; the trees thinned; and in a jog trot we at last wentrattling down the final incline and came right out with the impetus ofthat run upon the open ground around the lake, though of the lakeitself, now that we were at its level, we could discern little--onlytiny grey glimpses, so closely was it thronged about by rushes, and theyso tall.

  A thousand frogs were singing, making quite a din in our ears, so pentin was the sound in that cup-like hollow. But weary as we were, werejoiced to have come to our desired camp and soon were sitting fed andcontented round the fire.

  Of all our camps so far this seemed to me the most secure.Consequently, it horrified me a little when Apache Kid remarked, takinghis cigarette from his lips:

  "Where do you think Canlan will be to-night?"

  Donoghue considered the burning log:

  "Oh! Allowing for him getting on to us pulling out, even the day afterwe left, and allowing for him starting out right then, he can't benigher here than a day's journey, coming in to the country the way hewould do it--over the shoulder of Mount Baker and in that ways."

  "He 'll be over behind there, then," said Apache, pointing; "right overthat ridge, sitting by his lonesome camp and perhaps half a dozenfellows dogging him up too, eh?"

  "Like enough," said Donoghue; "but he's accustomed to bein' dogged up."

  "Those who live in glass houses..." remarked Apache Kid, with a laughthat had no real merriment in the ring of it.

  Donoghue raised his eyes to Apache's across the fire and laughed back.And they both seemed to fall into a reverie after these words. Fromtheir remarks I gathered that they believed that Canlan really knew thelocation of the mine. He had been simply waiting in Baker City, then,for fear of my two partners. So I sat silent and pondering. PresentlyApache Kid snorted and seemed to fling the thoughts aside that had beenoccupying him. But anon he fell brooding again, biting on his lip andclosing an eye to the glow.

  It was after one such long, meditative gazing into the glowing andleaping embers that he spoke to me, and with such a ring in his voice ascaused me to look upon him with a new interest. The tone of the voice,it seemed to me, hinted at some deep thought.

  "Where do you come from, Francis?" he asked. "What is your nationality?"

  "Why, I'm a Cosmopolitan," said I, half smiling, as one is prone to dowhen a man asks him some trivial matter with a voice as serious asthough he spoke of strange things.

  "Yes; we all are," said Apache Kid, putting aside my lightness. "But isn't it Edinburgh you come from?"

  "Yes," said I.

  He mused again at my reply, plucking his finger-knuckles, and thenturned an eye to Donoghue, who was already surveying him under hiswatchful brows.

  "Shall I tell him?" he asked.

  "Tell him what?" said Donoghue, looking uncomfortable, I thought, asthough this mood of his partner's was one he did not relish.

  "Tell him what we are--how we live--all that?"

  From Apache to me and back again Donoghue glanced, and then: "Oh! tell,if you like," said he. "There won't no harm come from telling him. He'ssafe. He 's all right, is Francis."

  Again there was a pause.

  "Well," said Apache Kid, finally, ending his reverie. "The fact is thatwe--Donoghue and I--except upon occasion, when we want to make some sortof a character for ourselves, to show a visible means of support,--thefact is, we are----"

  "Spit it out," said Donoghue. "Spit it out. It ain't everybody has thecourage to be."

  I considered what was coming.

  "The fact is," said Apache Kid, "we are what they call in this countryroad-agents--make our living by holding up stage-coaches and----"

  "By gum! we 've held up more nor stage-coaches," cried Donoghue, andbegan fumbling in an inner pocket with eager fingers.

  "And banks," said Apache Kid, gazing on me to see the effect of thisdisclosure.

  Donoghue stretched across to me, his loose face gleaming with a kind ofjoy.

  "Read that," he said. "Read what that says;" and he handed me a longnewspaper cutting.

  What I read on the cutting was:

  "Daring Hold-Up of the Transcontinental. The Two-some Gang again at Work."

  "That's us," said Donoghue, gloating. "It reads pretty good, but Apachehere says there ain't no sense in the headin' about the two-somegang--says them journalist boys is no good. Seems to me a right slicknotice--that's us, anyway."

  Apache Kid seemed disturbed, annoyed.

  "Well! what do you think?" he said, fixing me with his eye.

  "I 'm sorry," said I.

  Donoghue threw back his head and laughed.

  "It's not the right sort of way to live?" said Apache Kid,questioningly. "You know I can make out a fine case in its defence."

  "Yes," I replied. "I have no doubt you could, and that's just whatmakes me all the more sorry to think of your doing this. Still, I feelthat you having told me prevents me stating an opinion."

  "If someone else had told----" he began.

  "Then I might speak," said I.

  "Should it not be the other way about?" he asked, half smiling.

  "Perhaps it should," said I. "But if you honour me by telling me, it isenough for me just to say I am sorry. Would you have me preach?"

  He looked on me with great friendliness.

  "I understand the sentiment," said he. "But I should like you topreach, if you wish."

  "Well," said I, "I have no doubt you could, with the brains you have andyour turn for sophistry, make out a very entertaining defence for such alife. 'Murder as a fine art,' you know----"

  "Murder?" asked Donoghue; but Apache Kid silenced him with a gesture,and I continued:

  "But neither you nor those who heard your defence could treat itotherwise than as a piece of airy and misplaced, misdirected wit, o
n apar with your misplaced love of adventure."

  He nodded at that part, and his face cleared a little.

  "That but makes me all the more sorry," said I, "to know you are----" Ipaused. "A parasite!"

  I blurted out.

  "Parasite!" he cried; and his hand flew down to his holster, wavered,and fell soundless on his crossed legs.

  It was the first time he had looked on me in anger.

  "What's parasite?" asked Donoghue.

  "A louse," said Apache Kid.

  "Hell!" drawled Donoghue, and glanced at me. "You need lookin' after."

  "There are parasites and parasites," said I. "In this case it is morelike these deer-lice we came by in the forest."

  We had suffered from these, but I have not said anything of them, forthe subject is not pleasant.

  "Well," drawled Donoghue. "They are fighters, anyway, they are. Youkind o' respect them."

  Apache Kid smiled.

  "Yes," he said, in a low voice, "it's the right word, nevertheless."

  Donoghue jeered.

  "Waal! Here's where I come in! Here's the beauty of not beingediccated to big words nor what they mean, nor bein' able to follow ahigh-toned talk except the way a man follows a poor-blazed trail."

  Apache surveyed him with interest for a moment and then again turning tome he heaved a little sigh and said:

  "I wonder if you would do something for me after we get through withthis expedition? If I were to give you a little wad of bills, enoughfor a year's holiday at home, I wonder if you 'd go and take a squint atthe house where my folks lived when I left home; find out if they arestill there, and if not, trace them up? You 'd need to promise me notto let that sentimental side of you run away with you. You 'd need topromise not to go and tell them I'm alive; for I 'm sure they have givenme up for dead years ago and mourned the allotted space of time that menand women mourn--and forgotten. It would only be opening fresh woundsto hear of me. They have grieved for my death; I would not have themmourn for my life. But I--well, I sometimes wonder. You understandwhat I mean----"

  "Watch your eye!" roared Donoghue. "Watch your----" but a shot out ofthe forest sent him flying along the ground, he having risen suddenlyand stretched for his rifle.

  Instead of clutching it he went far beyond, ploughing the earth with hisoutstretched hands; and right on the first report came a second andApache cried: "O!"

  He sagged down all in a heap, but I flung round for my revolver--the onewith which I had had no practice. I heard the quick, dull plod ofrunning feet and before I could get my finger on my weapon a voice wasbellowing out:

  "Don't shoot, man; don't shoot! It's Canlan; Mike Canlan. You ain'thostile to Mike Canlan."

  I wheeled about, and there he was trailing his smoking rifle in his lefthand and extending his right to me; Mike Canlan, little Mike Canlan withthe beady eyes, the parchment-like, pock-marked face, and the boy'sbody.

  Had my revolver been to hand, he had been a dead man, I verilybelieve--he or I. As it was, I leapt on him crying:

  "Murderer! Murderer!"

  Down came my fist on his head and at the jar his rifle fell from hisgrasp. The next stroke took him on the lips, sending him backwards. Ipounded him till my arms were weary, he lying there with his faded,pock-marked face and his colourless eyes dancing in pain and crying out:"Let up! Let up, you fool! We ain't hostile. It's Canlan!" he cried,between blows. "Mike Canlan."

  At last I did "let up" and stood back from him.

  He sat up and wiped the blood from his mouth and spat out a tooth.

  "Ah, lad," he said. "Here's a fine way to repay me for savin' yourlife. Think I could n't have laid you out stark and stiff there asidethem two?"

  My gorge rose to hear him talk thus.

  "Easy I could have done it," he went on, "but I didn't. And why?"

  He sidled to me on his hams without attempting to rise, and held up afinger to me.

  "Why, lad, you saved my life once, so I spared yours this blessed night.That's me, that's Mike Canlan. And see here, lad, you and me now----"

  "Silence!" I cried, drawing back from his touch, as he crept nearer.

  I had seen murder done, of the most horrible kind. I had seen abig-hearted, sparkling-eyed man, not yet in his prime, struck out oflife in a moment. What he was telling me of himself was nothing to menow. I only knew that I had come to like him and that he wasgone--slain by this little, insignificant creature that you could notcall a man. And I had seen another man, whom I did not altogether hate,sent to as summary an end. I held this man who talked in the sing-songvoice at my feet in horror, in loathing. I bent to feel the heart ofApache Kid, for I thought I saw a movement in his sun-browned neck, asof a vein throbbing and--

  "O! They're dead, dead and done with," cried Canlan. "If they was n't,I 'd shove another shot into each of 'em just to make sure. But they're dead men, for Canlan killed 'em. If they was n't, I 'd shoveanother shot into each of them!"

  The words rang in my ears with warning. I had just been on the point oftrying to raise Apache Kid; a cry of joy was almost on my lips to thinkthat life was not extinct; but the words warned me and I turned about.

  "He's dead, ain't he?" said Canlan, and I lied to him.

  "Yes," I replied. "He is dead, and as for you----"

  "As for me--nothing!" said Canlan, and he looked along his gleamingbarrel at where my heart fluttered in my breast.

  "You and me," said he, "has to come to terms right now. Oh! I don'tdisrespec' you none for not takin' kindly to this. I like you all thebetter for it. But think of what you 've fallen into all through me.Here 's half shares in the Lost Cabin Mine for you now instead of apaltry third--half shares, my lad. How does that catch you?"

  I was not going to tell him the terms I was here on, but I said:

  "Put down your rifle then, and let us talk it over."

  "Come, now, that's better," said Canlan, cheerily; but I noticed that anerve in his left cheek kept twitching oddly as he spoke, and his headgave constant nervous jerks left and right, like a man shaking fliesaway from him, and he sniffed constantly, and I think was quite unawarethat he did so. But I did not wonder at his nervousness after such aheinous deed as he had performed that evening.