Cabin Gulch (33 page)

“Have you any message to send anyone . . . anything to say?” asked the masked leader.

“Nope.”

“Have you any request to make?” “Hang that damned Frenchman before me? I want to see him kick.”

Nothing more was said. The two men adjusted the noose around the doomed man's neck. Texas refused the black cap, and he did not wait for the drop to be sprung. He walked off the platform into space as Joan closed her eyes.

Again that strange full angry and unnatural roar waved through the throng of watchers. It was terrible to hear. Joan felt the violent action of that crowd, although the men close around her were immovable as stones. She imagined she could never open her eyes to see Texas hanging there. Yet she did—and something about his form told her that he had died instantly. He had been brave and loyal, even in dishonor. He had more than once spoken a kind word to her. Who could tell what had made him an outcast? She breathed a prayer for his soul.

The vigilantes were bolstering up the craven Frenchy. He could not stand alone. They put the rope around his neck and lifted him off the platform—then let him down. He screamed in his terror. They cut short his cries by lifting him again. This time they held him up several seconds. His face turned black. His eyes bulged. His breast heaved. His legs worked with the regularity of a jumping-jack. They let him down and loosened the noose. They were merely torturing him to wring a confession from him. He had been choked severely and needed a moment to recover.
When he did, it was to shrink back in abject terror from that loop of rope dangling before his eyes.

The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the swaying forms of the dead bandits.

Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.

The vast crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a strained silence.

“Talk English!” ordered the vigilante leader.

“I'll tell! I'll tell!”

Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells's arm, which she still clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then the bellow of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek. She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on the platform.

For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse uproar and the stamp of many boots. All in another instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve's strong arm around her—felt herself borne in a resistless tide of yelling, stamping, wrestling men. She had a glimpse of Kells's dark face drawing away from her, another of Gulden's giant form in Herculean action, tossing men aside like ninepins, another of weapons aloft. Savage, wild-eyed men fought to get into the circle whence that shot had come. They broke into it, but did not know then who to attack or what to do, and the rushing of the frenzied miners all around soon disintegrated Kells's band and bore its several groups in every direction. There was not another shot fired.

Joan was dragged and crushed in the mêlée. Not for rods did her feet touch the ground. But in the clouds of dust and confusion of struggling forms she knew Jim still held her. She clasped him with all her
strength. Presently her feet touched the earth; she was not jostled and pressed. She felt free to walk, and, with Jim urging her, they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin impeded further progress. But they had escaped the stream.

Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded in dust clouds—a band of bewildered vigilantes with weapons drawn, waiting, for they knew not what—three swinging ghastly forms and a dead man on the platform—and all below, a horde of men trying to escape from one another. That shot of Kells's had precipitated a rush. No miner knew who the vigilantes were or the members of the Border Legion. Every man there expected a bloody battle—distrusted the man next to him—and had given way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd together for defense and all the others had tried to escape. It was a wild scene, borne of wild justice and blood at fever heat, the climax of a disordered time where gold and violence had reigned supreme. It could only happen once, but it was terrible while it lasted. It showed the craven in men; it proved the baneful influence of gold; it brought, in its fruition, the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it must have been that the really brave and honest men in vast majority retraced their steps while the vicious kept running. So it seemed to Joan.

She huddled against Jim there in the shadow of the cabin wall, and not for long did either speak. They watched and listened. The streams of miners turned back toward the space around the scaffold where the vigilantes stood grouped. There rose a subdued roar of excited voices. Many small groups of men conversed together, until the vigilante leader brought all to attention by addressing the populace in general. Joan could not hear what he said and had no wish to hear.

“Joan, it all happened so quickly, didn't it?” whispered Jim, shaking his head as if he was not convinced of reality.

“Wasn't he . . . terrible?” whispered Joan in reply.

“He . . . who?”

“Kells.” In her mind the bandit leader dominated all that wild scene.

“Terrible, if you like. But I'd say great! The nerve of him! In the face of a hundred vigilantes and a thousand miners! But he knew what that shot would do.”

“Never. He never thought of that,” declared Joan earnestly. “I felt him tremble. I had a glimpse of his face. Oh, first in his mind was his downfall, and, second, the treachery of Frenchy. I think that shot showed Kells as utterly desperate, but weak. He couldn't have helped it . . . if that had been the last shell in his gun.”

Jim Cleve looked strangely at Joan, as if her eloquence was both persuasive and incomprehensible.

“Well, it was a lucky shot for us . . . and him, too.”

“Do you think he got away?” she asked eagerly.

“Sure. They all got away. Wasn't that about the maddest crowd you ever saw?”

“No wonder. In a second every man there feared the man next to him would shoot. That showed the power of Kells's Border Legion. If his men had been faithful and obedient, he never would have fallen.”

“Joan! You speak as if you regret it!”

“Oh, I am ashamed,” replied Joan. “I don't mean that. I don't know what I do mean. . . . But, still, I'm sorry for Kells. I suffered so much. . . . Those long, long hours of suspense. . . . His fortunes seemed my fortunes . . . my very life . . . and yours, too, Jim.”

“I think I understand, dear,” said Jim soberly.

“Jim, what'll we do now? Isn't it strange to feel free?”

“I feel as queer as you. Let me think,” replied Jim.

They huddled there in comparative seclusion for a long time after that. Joan tried to think of plans, but her mind seemed unproductive. She felt herself dazed. Jim, too, appeared to be laboring under the same kind of burden. Moreover, responsibility had been added to his.

The afternoon waned till the sun tipped the high range in the west. The excitement of the mining populace gradually wore away, and toward sunset strings of men filed up the road and across the open. The masked vigilantes disappeared, and presently only a quiet and curious crowd was left around the grim scaffold and its dark swinging forms. Joan's one glance showed that the vigilantes had swung Frenchy's dead body in the noose he would have escaped by treachery. They had hanged him dead. What a horrible proof of the temper of these new-born vigilantes! They had left the bandits swinging. What sight was so appalling as these limp, dark, swaying forms? Dead men on the ground had a dignity—at least the dignity of death. And death sometimes had a majesty. But here both life and death had been robbed, and here was only horror. Joan felt that all her life she would be haunted.

“Joan, we've got to leave Alder Creek,” declared Cleve finally. The words seemed to have given him decision. “At first I thought every bandit in the gang would run as far as he could from here. But . . . you can't tell what these wild men will do. Gulden, for instance. Common sense ought to make them hide for a spell. Still, no matter what's what, we must leave. Now, how to go?”

“Let's walk. If we buy horses or wait for the stage, we'll have to see men here . . . and I'm afraid.”

“But Joan, there'll be bandits along the road sure. And the trails, wherever they are, would be less safe.”

“Let's travel by night and rest by day.”

“That won't do, with so far to go, and no pack.”

“Then part of the way.”

“No. We'd better take the stage for Bannack. If it starts at all, it'll be under armed guard. The only thing is . . . will it leave soon? Come, Joan, we'll go down into camp.”

Dusk had fallen and lights had begun to accentuate the shadows. Joan kept close beside Jim, down the slope, and into the road. She felt like a guilty thing and every passing man or low cowering group frightened her. Still she could not help but see that no one noticed her or Jim. And she began to gather courage. Jim also acquired confidence. The growing darkness seemed a protection. The farther up the street they passed, the more men they met. Again the saloons were in full blast. Alder Creek had returned to the free, careless tenor of its way. A few doors this side of the Last Nugget was the office of the stage and express company. It was a wide tent with the front canvas cut out and a shelf counter across the opening. There was a dim yellow lamplight. Half a dozen men lounged in front, and inside were several more, two of whom appeared to be armed guards. Jim addressed no one in particular.

“When does the next stage leave for Bannack?”

A man looked up sharply from the papers that littered a table before him.

“It leaves when we start it,” he replied curtly.

“Well, when will that be?”

“What's that to you?” he replied with a question still more curt.

“I want to buy seats for two.”

“That's different. Come in and let's look you over. Hello, it's young Cleve. I didn't recognize you. Excuse me. We're a little particular these days.”

The man's face was lighted. Evidently he knew Jim and thought well of him. This reassured Joan and stilled the furious beating of her heart. She saw Jim hand over a sack of gold, from which the agent took the amount due for the passage. Then he returned the sack and whispered something in Jim's ear. Jim rejoined her and led her away, pressing her arm close to her side.

“It's all right,” he whispered excitedly. “Stage leaves just before daylight. It used to leave the middle of the forenoon. But they want a good start tomorrow.”

“They think it might be held up?”

“He didn't say so. But there's every reason to suspect that . . . Joan, I sure hope it won't. Me with all this gold. Why, I feel as if I weighed a thousand pounds.”

“What'll we do now?” she inquired.

Jim halted in the middle of the road. It was quite dark now. The lights of the camp were flaring; men were passing to and fro; the loose boards in the walks rattled to their tread; the saloons had begun to hum, and there were discordant blasts from the Last Nugget.

“That'sit . . . what'll we do?” he asked in perplexity.

Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessening of her fear and the gradual clearing of her mind, she felt that she would not much longer be witless.

“We've to eat and get some rest,” said Jim sensibly.

“I'll try to eat . . . but I don't think I'll be able to sleep tonight,” replied Joan.

Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican. It appeared to consist of two tents, with opening in front and door between. The table was a plank resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served as a seat. There was a smoking lamp that flickered. The Mexican's tableware was of a crudeness
befitting his house, but it was clean and he could cook—two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience of Bate Wood. She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who spoke English rather well and was friendly. Evidently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed. Both the food and the friendliness had good effect upon Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time or to glance furtively outside at every footstep.

“Joan, I guess it'll turn out all right,” he said, clasping her hand, as it rested upon the table. Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy. He leaned toward her. “Do you remember . . . we are married?” he whispered.

Joan was startled. “Of course,” she replied hastily. But had she forgotten?

“You're my wife.”

Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle. A soft warm wave stole over her.

Like a boy he laughed. “This was our first meal together . . . on our honeymoon.”

“Jim.” The blood burned in Joan's face.

“There you sit . . . you're beautiful . . . but you're not a girl now. You're Dandy Dale.”

“Don't call me that!” exclaimed Joan.

“But I shall . . . always. We'll keep that bandit suit always. You can dress up sometimes to show off . . . to make me remember . . . to scare the . . . the kids.”

“Jim Cleve!”

“Oh, Joan, I'm afraid to be happy. But I can't help it. We're going to get away. You belong to me. And I've sacks and sacks of gold dust. Lord, I've no idea how much. But you can never spend all the money. Isn't it just like a dream?”

Joan smiled through tears, and failed trying to look
severe. “Get me and the gold away . . . safe . . . before you crow,” she said.

That sobered him. He led her out again into the dark street with its dark forms crossing to and fro before the lights.

“It's a long time before morning. Where can I take you . . . so you can sleep a little?” he muttered.

“Find a place where we can sit down and wait,” she suggested.

“No.” He pondered a moment. “I guess there's no risk.”