CHAPTER IX
A NEW DEAL
The rush of burro-men to Hungry Bill’s ranch followed close in Dusty Rhodes’ wake, and some there were who came on foot; but they soon came stringing back, for it was a fine, large country and Hungry Bill was about as communicative as a rattlesnake. All he knew, or cared to know, was the price of corn and fruit, which he sold at Blackwater prices; and the search for Wunpost had only served to show to what lengths a man will go for revenge. In some mysterious way Wunpost had acquired a horse and mule, both sharp-shod for climbing over rocks, and he had dallied at Hungry Bill’s until the first of the stampeders had come in sight on the Panamint trail. Then he had set out up the ridge, riding the horse and packing the mule, and even an Indian trailer had given out and quit without ever bringing them in sight of him again. He had led them such a chase that the hardiest came back satisfied, and they agreed that he could keep his old mine.
The excitement died away or was diverted to other channels, for Blackwater was having a boom; and, just as Wilhelmina had given up hope of seeing him, John C. Calhoun came riding down the ridge. Not down the canyon, where the trail made riding easy, but down the steep ridge trail, where a band of mountain sheep was accustomed to come for water. Wilhelmina was in her tunnel, looking down with envious eyes at the traffic in the valley below; and he came upon her suddenly, so suddenly it made her jump, for no one ever rode up there.
“Hello!” he hailed, spurring his horse up to the portal and letting out his rope as he entered. “Kinder hot, out there in the sun. Well, how’s tricks?” he inquired, sitting down in the shade and wiping the streaming sweat from his eyes. “Hungry Bill says you s-spurned my gold!”
“What did you tell that old Indian?” burst out Wilhelmina wrathfully, and Wunpost looked up in surprise.
“Why, nothing,” he said, “only to get me some grub and give you that piece of polished rock. How was that for the real old high grade? From my new mine, up in the high country. What’s the matter–did Hungry get gay?”
“Well–not that,” hesitated Wilhelmina, “but he looked at me so funny that I told him to give it to Mother. What was it you told him about me?”
“Not a thing,” protested Wunpost, “just to give you the rock. Oh, I know!” He laughed and slapped his leg. “He’s scared some prospector will steal one of them gals, and I told him not to worry about me. Guess that gave him a tip, because he looked wise as a prairie dog when I told him to give that specimen to you.” He paused and knocked the dust out of his battered old hat, then glanced up from under his eyebrows.
“Ain’t mad, are you?” he asked, “because if you are I’m on my way─”
“Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “Where have you been all the time? Dusty Rhodes came through here, looking for you.”
“Yes, they all came,” he grinned, “but I showed ’em some sheep-trails before they got tired of chasing me. I knew for a certainty that those mugs would follow Hungry–they did the same thing over in Nevada. I sent in an Indian to buy me a little grub and they trailed me clean across Death Valley. Guess that ore must have looked pretty good.”
“Where’d you get it?” she asked, and he rolled his eyes roguishly while a crafty smile lit up his face.
“That’s a question,” he said. “If I’d tell you, you’d have the answer. But I’m not going to show it to nobody!”
“Well, you don’t need to think that I care!” she spoke up resentfully, “nobody asked you to show them your gold. And after what happened with the Willie Meena I wouldn’t take your old mine for a gift.”
“You won’t have to,” he replied. “I’ve quit taking in pardners–it’s a lone hand for me, after this. I’m sure slow in the head, but I reckon I’ve learned my lesson–never go up against the other man’s game. Old Eells is a lawyer and I tried to beat him at law. We’ve switched the deal now and he can play my game a while–hide-and-seek, up in them high peaks.”
He waved his hand in the direction of the Panamints and winked at her exultantly.
“Look at that!” he said, and drew a rock from his shirt pocket which was caked and studded with gold. It was more like a chunk of gold with a little quartz attached to it, and as she exclaimed he leaned back and gloated. “I’ve got worlds of it!” he declared. “Let ’em get out and rustle for it–that’s the way I made my start. By the time they’ve rode as far as I have they’ll know she’s a mountain sheep country. I located two mines right smack beside the trail and these jaspers came along and stole them both. All right! Fine! Fine! Let ’em look for the old Sockdolager where I got this gold, and the first man that finds it can have it! I’m a sport–I haven’t even staked it!”
“And can I have it?” asked Billy, her eyes beginning to glow, “because, oh, we need money so bad!”
“What for, kid?” inquired Wunpost with a fatherly smile. “Ain’t you got a good home, and everything?”
“Yes, but the road–Father’s road. If I just had the money we’d start right in on it tomorrow.”
“Hoo! I’ll build you the road!” declared Wunpost munificently. “And it won’t cost either one of us a cent. Don’t believe it, eh? You think this is bunk? Then I’ll tell you, kid, what I’ll do. I’ll make you a bet we’ll have a wagon-road up that canyon before three months are up. And all by head-work, mind ye–not a dollar of our own money–might even get old Eells to build it. Yes, I’m serious; I’ve got a new system–been thinking it out, up in the hills–and just to show you how brainy I am I’ll make this demonstration for nothing. You don’t need to bet me anything, just acknowledge that I’m the king when it comes to the real inside work; and before I get through I’ll have Judson Eells belly up and gasping for air like a fish. I’m going to trim him, the big fat slob; I’m going to give him a lesson that’ll learn him to lay off of me for life; I’m going to make him so scared he’ll step down into the gutter when he meets me coming down the sidewalk. Well, laugh, doggone it, but you watch my dust–I’m going to hang his hide on the fence!”
“That’s what you told me before,” she reminded him mischievously, “but somehow it didn’t work out.”
“It’ll work out this time,” he retorted grimly. “A man has got to learn. I’m just a kid, I know that, and I’m not much on book learning, but don’t you never say I can’t think! Maybe I can’t beat them crooks when I play their own game, but this time I deal the hand! Do you git me? We’ve switched the deal! And if I don’t ring in a cold deck and deal from the bottom it won’t be because it’s wrong. I’m out to scalp ’em, see, and just to convince you we’ll begin by building that road. Your old man is wrong, he don’t need no road and it won’t do him any good when he gets it; but just to make you happy and show you how much I think of you, I’ll do it–only you’ve got to stand pat! No Sunday school stuff, see? We’re going to fight this out with hay hooks, and when I come back with his hair don’t blame me if old Eells makes a roar. I’m going to stick him, see; and I’m not going to stick him once–I’m going to stick him three times, till he squeals like a pig, because that’s what he did to me! He cleaned me once on the Wunpost, and twice on the Willie Meena, but before I get through with him he’ll knock a corner off the mountain every time he sees my dust. He’ll be gone, you understand–it’ll be moving day for him–but I’ll chase him to the hottest stope in hell. I’m going to bust him, savvy, just to learn these other dastards not to start any rough stuff with me. And now the road, the road! We’ll just get him to build it–I’ve got it all framed up!”
He made a bluff to kiss her, then ran out and mounted his horse and went rollicking off towards Blackwater. Wilhelmina brushed her cheek and gazed angrily after him, then smiled and turned away with a sigh.
CHAPTER X
THE SHORT SPORTS
The booming mining camp of Blackwater stood under the rim of a high mesa, between it and an alkali flat, and as Wunpost rode in he looked it over critically, though with none too friendly eyes. Being laid out in a land of magnificent distances, there was plenty of room between the houses, and the broad main street seemed more suited for driving cattle than for accommodating the scant local traffic. There had been a time when all that space was needed to give swing-room to twenty-mule teams, but that time was past and the two sparse rows of houses seemed dwarfed and pitifully few. Yet there were new ones going up, and quite a sprinkling of tents; and down on the corner Wunpost saw a big building which he knew must be Judson Eells’ bank.
It had sprung up in his absence, a pretentious structure of solid concrete, and as he jogged along past it Wunpost swung his head and looked it over scornfully. The walls were thick and strong, but that was no great credit, for in that desert country any man who would get water could mix concrete until he was tired. All in the world he had to do was to scoop up the ground and pour the mud into the molds, and when it was set he had a natural concrete, composed of lime and coarse gravel and bone-dry dust. Half the burro-corrals in Blackwater were built out of concrete, but Eells had put up a big false front. This had run into money, the ornately stamped tin-work having been shipped all the way from Los Angeles; and there were two plate-glass windows that framed a passing view of marble pillars and shining brass grilles. Wunpost took it all in and then hissed through his teeth–the money that had built it was his!
“I’ll skin him!” he muttered, and pulled up down the street before Old Whiskers’ populous saloon. Several men drifted out to speak to him as he tied his horse and pack, but he greeted them all with such a venomous glare that they shied off and went across the street. There there stood a rival saloon, rushed up in Wunpost’s absence; but after looking it over he went into Whiskers’ Place, which immediately began to fill up. The coming of Wunpost had been noted from afar, and a man who buys his grub with jewelry gold-specimens is sure to have a following. He slouched in sulkily and gazed at Old Whiskers, who was chewing on his tobacco like a ruminative billygoat and pretending to polish the bar. It was borne in on Whiskers that he had refused Wunpost a drink on the day he had walked out of camp, but he was hoping that the slight was forgotten; for if he could keep him in his saloon all the others would soon be vacated, now that Wunpost was the talk of the town. He had found one mine and lost it and gone out and found another one while the rest of them were wearing out shoe-leather; and a man like that could not be ignored by the community, no matter if he did curse their town. So Whiskers chewed on, not daring to claim his friendship, and Wunpost leaned against the bar.
“Gimme a drink,” he said laying fifteen cents before him; and as several men moved forward he scowled at them in silence and tossed off his solamente. “Cr-ripes!” he shuddered, “did you make that yourself?” And when Whiskers, caught unawares, half acquiesced, Wunpost drew himself up and burst forth. “I believe it!” he announced with an oracular nod, “I can taste the burnt sugar, the fusel oil, the wood alcohol and everything. One drink of that stuff would strike a stone Injun blind if it wasn’t for this dry desert air. They tell me, Whiskers, that when you came to this town you brought one barrel of whiskey with you–and that you ain’t ordered another one since. That stuff is all right for those that like it–I’m going across the street.”
He strode out the door, taking the fickle crowd with him and leaving Old Whiskers to chew the cud of brooding bitterness. In the saloon across the street a city barkeeper greeted Wunpost affably, and inquired what it would be. Wunpost asked for a drink and the discerning barkeeper set out a bottle with the seal uncut. It was bonded goods, guaranteed seven years in the wood, and Wunpost smacked his lips as he tasted it.
“Have one yourself,” he suggested and while the crowd stood agape he laid down a nugget of gold.
That settled it with Blackwater, they threw their money on the bar and tried to get him drunk, but Wunpost would drink with none of them.
“No, you bunch of bootlickers!” he shouted angrily, “go on away, I won’t have nothing to do with you! When I was broke you wouldn’t treat me and now that I’m flush I reckon I can buy my own liquor. You’re all sucking around old Eells, saying he made the town–I made your danged town myself! Didn’t I discover the Willie Meena–and ain’t that what made the town? Well, go chase yourselves, you suckers, I’m through with ye! You did me dirt when you thought I was cleaned and now you can all go to blazes!”
He shook hands with the friendly barkeeper, told him to keep the change, and fought his way out to the street. The crowd of boomers, still refusing to be insulted, trooped shamelessly along in his wake; and when he unpacked his mule and took out two heavy, heavy ore-sacks even Judson Eells cast aside his dignity. He had looked on from afar, standing in front of the plate-glass window which had “Willie Meena Mining Company” across it; but at a signal from Lynch, who had been acting as his lookout, he came running to demand his rights. The acquisition of The Wunpost and The Willie Meena properties had by no means satisfied his lust; and since this one crazy prospector–who of all men he had grubstaked seemed the only one who could find a mine–had for the third time come in with rich ore, he felt no compunctions about claiming his share.
“Where’d you get that ore?” he demanded of Wunpost as the crowd opened up before him and Wunpost glanced at him fleeringly.
“I stole it!” he said and went on sorting out specimens which he stuffed into his well-worn overalls.
“I asked you where!” returned Eells, drawing his lip up sternly, and Wunpost turned to the crowd.
“You see?” he jeered, “I told you he was crooked. He wants to go and steal some himself.” He laughed, long and loud, and some there were who joined in with him, for Eells was not without his enemies. To be sure he had built the bank, and established his offices in Blackwater when he might have started a new town at the mine; but no moneylender was ever universally popular and Eells was ruthless in exacting his usury. But on the other hand he had brought a world of money in to town, for the Willie Meena had paid from the first; and it was his pay-roll and the wealth which had followed in his wake that had made the camp what it was; so no one laughed as long or as loud as John C. Calhoun and he hunched his shoulders and quit.
“Never you mind where I stole it!” he said to Eells, “I stole it, and that’s enough. Is there anything in your contract that gives you a cut on everything I steal?”
“Why–why, no,” replied Eells, “but that isn’t the point–I asked you where you got it. If it’s stolen, that’s one thing, but if you’ve located another mine─”
“I haven’t!” put in Wunpost, “you’ve broke me of that. The only way I can keep anything now is to steal it. Because, no matter what it is, if I come by it honestly, you and your rabbit-faced lawyer will grab it; but if I go out and steal it you don’t dare to claim half, because that would make you out a thief. And of course a banker, and a big mining magnate, and the owner of the famous Willie Meena–well, it just isn’t done, that’s all.”
He twisted up his lips in a wry, sarcastic smile but Eells was not susceptible to irony. He was the bulldog type of man, the kind that takes hold and hangs on, and he could see that the ore was rich. It was so rich indeed that in those two sacks alone there were undoubtedly several thousand dollars–and the mine itself might be worth millions. Eells turned and beckoned to Phillip F. Lapham, who was looking on with greedy eyes. They consulted together while Wunpost waited calmly, though with the battle light in his eyes, and at last Eells returned to the charge.
“Mr. Calhoun,” he said, “there’s no use to pretend that this ore which you have is stolen. We have seen samples of it before and it is very unusual–in fact, no one has seen anything like it. Therefore your claim that it is stolen is a palpable pretense, to deprive me of my rights under our constitution.
“Yes?” prompted Wunpost, dropping his hand on his pistol, and Eells paused and glanced at Lapham.
“Well,” he conceded, “of course I can’t prove anything and─”
“No, you bet you can’t prove anything,” spoke up Wunpost defiantly, “and you can’t touch an ounce of my ore. It’s mine and I stole it and no court can make me show where; because a man can’t be compelled to incriminate himself–and if I showed you they could come out and pinch me. Huh! You’ve got a lawyer, have you? Well, I’ve got one myself and I know my legal rights and if any man puts out his hand to take away this bag, I’ve got a right to shoot him dead! Ain’t that right now, Mr. Flip Flappum?”
“Well–the law gives one the right to defend his own property; but only with sufficient force to resist the attack, and to shoot would be excessive.”
“Not with me!” asserted Wunpost, “I’ve consulted one of the best lawyers in Nevada and I’m posted on every detail. There’s Pisen-face Lynch, that everybody knows is a gun-man in the employ of Judson Eells, and at the first crooked move I’d be justified in killing him and then in killing you and Eells. Oh, I’ll law you, you dastards, I’ll law you with a six-shooter–and I’ve got an attorney all hired to defend me. We’ve agreed on his fee and I’ve got it all buried where he can go get it when I give him the directions; and I hope he gets it soon because then there’ll be just three less grafters, to rob honest prospectors of their rights.”
He advanced upon Lapham, his great head thrust out as he followed his squirming flight through the crowd; and when he was gone he turned upon Eells who stood his ground with insolent courage.
“And you, you big slob,” he went on threateningly, “you don’t need to think you’ll git off. I ain’t afraid of your gun-man, and I ain’t afraid of you, and before we get through I’m going to git you. Well, laugh if you want to–it’s your scalp or mine–and you can jest politely go to hell.”
He snapped his fingers in his face and, taking a sack in both hands, started off to the Wells Fargo office; and, so intimidated for once were Eells and his gun-fighter, that neither one followed along after him. Wunpost deposited his treasure in the Express Company’s safe and went off to care for his animals and, while the crowd dispersed to the several saloons, Eells and Lapham went into conference. This sudden glib quoting of moot points of law was a new and disturbing factor, and Lapham himself was quite unstrung over the news of the buried retainer. It had all the earmarks of a criminal lawyer’s work, this tender solicitude for his fee; and some shysters that Lapham knew would even encourage their client to violence, if it would bring them any nearer to the gold. But this gold–where did it come from? Could it possibly be high-graded, in spite of all the testimony to the contrary? And if not, if his claim that it was stolen was a blind, then how could they discover its whereabouts? Certainly not by force of law, and not by any violence–they must resort to guile, the old cunning of the serpent, which now differentiates man from the beasts of the field, and perhaps they could get Wunpost drunk!
Happy thought! The wires were laid and all Blackwater joined in with them, in fact it was the universal idea, and even the new barkeeper with whom Wunpost had struck up an acquaintance had promised to do his part. To get Wunpost drunk and then to make him boast, to pique him by professed doubts of his great find; and then when he spilled it, as he had always done before, the wild rush and another great boom! They watched his every move as he put his animals in a corral and stored his packs and saddles; and when, in the evening, he drifted back to The Mint, man after man tried to buy him a drink. But Wunpost was antisocial, he would have none of their whiskey and their canting professions of friendship; only Ben Fellowes, the new barkeeper, was good enough for his society and he joined him in several libations. It was all case goods, very soft and smooth and velvety, and yet in a remarkably short space of time Wunpost was observed to be getting garrulous.
“I’ll tell you, pardner,” he said taking the barkeeper by the arm and speaking very confidently into his ear, “I’ll tell you, it’s this way with me. I’m a Calhoun, see–John C. Calhoun is my name, and I come from the state of Kentucky–and a Kentucky Calhoun never forgets a friend, and he never forgets an enemy. I’m burned out on this town–don’t like it–nothing about it–but you, now, you’re different, you never done me any injury. You’re my friend, ain’t that right, you’re my friend!”
The barkeeper reassured him and held his breath while he poured out another drink and then, as Wunpost renewed his protestations, Fellowes thanked him for his present of the nugget.
“What–that?” exclaimed Wunpost brushing the piece of gold aside, “that’s nothing–here, give you a good one!” He drew out a chunk of rock fairly encrusted with gold and forced it roughly upon him. “It’s nothing!” he said, “lots more where that came from. Got system, see–know how to find it. All these water-hole prospectors, they never find nothing–too lazy, won’t get out and hunt. I head for the high places–leap from crag to crag, see, like mountain sheep–come back with my pockets full of gold. These bums are no good–I could take ’em out tonight and lead ’em to my mine and they’d never be able to go back. Rough country ’n all that–no trails, steep as the devil–take ’em out there and lose ’em, every time. Take you out and lose you–now say, you’re my friend, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”
He stopped with portentous dignity and poured out another drink and the barkeeper frowned a hanger-on away.
“I’ll take you out there,” went on Wunpost, “and show you my mine–show you the place where I get all this gold. You can pick up all you want, and when we get back you give me a thousand dollar bill. That’s all I ask is a thousand dollar bill–like to have one to flash on the boys–and then we’ll go to Los and blow the whole pile–by grab, I’m a high-roller, right. I’m a good feller, see, as long as you’re my friend, but don’t tip off this place to old Eells. Have to kill you if you do–he’s bad actor–robbed me twice. What’s matter–ain’t you got the dollar bill?”
“You said a thousand dollars!” spoke up the barkeeper breathlessly.
“Well, thousand dollar bill, then. Ain’t you got it–what’s the matter? Aw, gimme another drink–you’re nothing but a bunch of short sports.”
He shook his head and sighed and as the barkeeper began to sweat he caught the hanger-on’s eye. It was Pisen-face Lynch and he was winking at him fiercely, meanwhile tapping his own pocket significantly.
“I can get it,” ventured the barkeeper but Wunpost ignored him.
“You’re all short sports,” he asserted drunkenly, waving his hand insultingly at the crowd. “You’re cheap guys–you can’t bear to lose.”
“Hey!” broke in the barkeeper, “I said I’d take you up. I’ll get the thousand dollars, all right.”
“Oh, you will, eh?” murmured Wunpost and then he shook himself together. “Oh–sure! Yes, all right! Come on, we’ll start right now!”