Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (25 page)

 
          
“Then
you can wish it good-bye,” jeered another. “
Yore cowboy
friends has
rustled the damned lot, coach an’ all.” A glint of a smile
showed on the prisoner’s pale face. Then he made what he would have called a
bad move. “To know that, you must have been there,” he said softly.

 
          
Fagan’s
face became furious. “Cut the cackle,” he grated. “Where’s yore gold?”

 
          
“Green
and Mason are taking care of it,”
came
the calm reply.

 
          
With
venomous speed the pistol-barrel swung up and down, the victim’s knees gave and
he toppled to the floor, his out-flung arms sending the chess-men flying; a
trickle of blood stained the white hair. Fagan gazed down upon the sprawling,
limp form.

 
          
“I
guess he won’t interfere no more,” he said. “Git busy, boys; the stuff’s here
somewheres.” The scanty furniture was soon searched and hurled aside, the
contents of a box scattered, and then Hank, who had tipped over the
truckle-bed, uttered a grunt of satisfaction.

 
          
“Here’s
a short board,” he said.

 
          
With
the point of his knife, he prised it up, and chuckled at the sight of the tin
canister in the hole below. Snatching it out, he lifted the lid and cursed when
he saw only one small bag.

 
          
“A
measly two-three ounces,” he said disappointedly. “We’d oughta bin after it
yestiddy.”

 
          
“Which
we was, an’ missed it just the same,” Lem reminded.

 
          
Rodd
had been searching the senseless figure on the floor; he found only a few
greenbacks, and some small change. The cowboys’ room produced nothing.

 
          
“No
use hangin’ about here,” Fagan decided. “Our luck seems to be dead out.” One by
one they disappeared into the darkness, leaving the cabin looking as though a
tempest had passed through it, and in the midst of his broadcast belongings,
the victim of their cupidity.

 
          
So
Rogers found him later, and having doctored the hurt —an ugly scalp wound—to
the best of his ability, got the old man to bed and straightened up the place.
It was some hours ere Jacob recovered sufficiently to explain, and he did not
tell all he knew.

 
          
“Must
‘a’ been someone who knowed Jim an’ his pardner warn’t here—wouldn’t ‘a’ tried
it else,” the miner decided. “
Me
an’ the boys’ll camp
with you till they’re back.”

 
          
“That’s
good of you, Rogers, but they know there’s nothing here now,” the patient
protested.

 
          
“Shore,
but other skunks don’t, an’ Deadwood’s full of ‘em,” was the reply. “On that,
you’ll need nussin’. If Jim comes back an’ finds we ain’t looked after you he’ll
crawl
our humps good an’ plenty.”

 
          
“I
can’t picture you afraid of anyone,” the gold-buyer smiled.

 
          
“You
got me wrong,” Rogers said. “If Jim invited me to pull my gun I’d do it an’ go
to hell with my self-respect, anyways. But he’s white, an’ I’d hate for him to
be disappointed in me.

 
          
Sabe?”
Jacob looked at the rough, hard face and smiled
again. “I know, my friend,” he said gently.
“A white man.
That is saying it all. I’d ask for no better epitaph.” He was silent for a
while, thinking, and then he turned to Rogers.

 
          
“Listen.
I am not much hurt—just a broken head, but I intend to lie low and let it be
thought serious,” he said. “When d’you figure the boys’ll be back?” Rogers
asked.

 
          
“I
cannot guess. They are on a dangerous mission and I shall be anxious,” was the
reply.

 
          
The
gold-buyer was not the only one to be concerned respecting the cowboys.
Lesurge, from entirely different motives, was also worried. Everything else was
going well. Stark’s influence in Deadwood was growing, and he had the man in
his pocket. Hickok, whom he feared, was disposed of, and his slayer—having been
acquitted by a miners’ court—had left the district, to pay the penalty for his
crime later, after a trial before a regular tribunal.

 
          
All
was now ready for the final coup—the seizure of Ducane’s mine, the wealth from
which would enable him to gratify his grasping ambition. But for this he needed
Green, who—as he believed—alone knew the location, and he coveted the gold
stolen from the stage. So, as day succeeded day, and there was no sign of the
puncher, Paul’s usually placid forehead grew more furrowed. Once, as they were
finishing the evening meal, he jocularly referred to the difficulty he was
facing:

 
          
“Forgetfulness
must be catching, Phil, and you seem to have infected Miss Mary.”

 
          
“Memories
is
queer things, Paul,” Snowy replied. “Mine has
served me scurvy tricks but I reckoned I’d played safe when I took Green with
me that time—plainsmen is used to rememberin’ trails. Now it looks like he’s
got lost in the woods—I ain’t seen him quite a while.” Lesurge told him why,
giving the version he had used for Stark, and concluding with, “I doubt if either
of them will show up again.” Lora had listened with growing doubt. He had told
her nothing of this matter, but she was acquainted with his methods. Her shrewd
brain divined the deadlock he had stumbled into, and even self-interest did not
prevent a sense of spiteful satisfaction.

 
          
“You
seem to have handled this outlaw all the cards, Paul,” she remarked. “He has
the gold, and—since he alone knows where to find it—he has the mine too. I’ve
never known you so generous.” The cool, sarcastic tone stung as though she had
lashed him with a whip, but while his dark eyes were threatening, his voice
remained unruffled:

 
          
“Lora,
with her usual lucidity, has put the matter in a nutshell. If Green does not

return
…”

 
          
“
He
dasn’t, if he’s corralled the gold,” Snowy pointed out. “That’s
so, and therefore we have to find the mine without him,” Paul said. “Mary, can’t
you cudgel that pretty head and come to our assistance?” The girl shook the
pretty head. Though she did not know why her silence was desired, she was loyal
to the old man. “It ain’t Paul, but the fellas he’s mixed up with,” her uncle
had said. “They might git ahead of us. Which was not very clear, but it
satisfied her.

 
          
“I’ve
tried to remember,” she replied. “Something about travelling north-west, over a
ridge and past a peak, but that doesn’t help much, does it?”

 
          
“I’m
afraid not,” Paul admitted. “The confounded country is all ridges and peaks.
Never mind, we’ll find it; I don’t allow little obstacles like that to beat me.”
He looked at his sister. “One of your admirers is complaining of not seeing
you.
Yes, Reuben Stark.
Suppose we all go over and let
Mary see what Deadwood can do in the way of entertainment?”

 
          
“I’d
like to, if it will be-all right,” the girl said.

 
          
“Of
course it will—you’ll be with us,” Lora cried eagerly. “Come along, we must
make ourselves beautiful.” Lesurge paid the obvious compliment as they ran out
of the room, and turned to his companion.

 
          
“Phil,
that niece of yours”—there was a sneering emphasis on the last word—“gets
prettier every day. You’ll lose her, certain, but not, I hope, to a common
cowboy.”

 
          
“Her
father ran a small ranch an’ warn’t o’ much account,” Snowy replied.

 
          
“No
reason for her to stay in the mire because she was born there,” the other
retorted. “If her uncle”—again the emphasis—“was not romancing, she’ll be a
rich woman, and should marry a—gentleman.”

 
          
“Yeah,”
Snowy said, and then, with apparent inconsequence, “She thinks a lot o’ yu,
Paul.”

 
          
“I’m
very glad to know it,” Lesurge smiled, and turning to the door, failed to see
the old man’s savage grimace.

 
          
The
Monte provided three forms of amusement for its patrons. On the right of the
wide space in front of the long bar, with its shining array of bottles, one
might lose or win money, as fortune decided, at various games of chance; on the
left there was dancing, to the strains of a couple of fiddles and a somewhat
tinny piano; for those who cared for neither of these attractions, tables and
chairs enabled them to consume liquor in comfort.

 
          
At
first, the bright lights, swimming in a haze of blue tobacco smoke, the music,
the clamour of many voices and boisterous laughter would have made Mary Ducane
retreat, but the sight of her own sex among the company reassured her. Ignorant
of the world, she did not notice that they were harsh-toned, over-painted and
under-dressed; they were women, and justified her presence.

 
          
A
hum of admiration greeted Lora Lesurge, as, arm-in-arm with the younger
girl,
she advanced along the narrow aisle leading to the
back of the room. Cold, aloof, confident in the power of her beauty, she
stilled the tongues of men who had well nigh lost respect for everything that
wore a skirt. The saloonkeeper, who had seen her enter, watched her progress
with greedy eyes.

 
          
“Damn
me, she’s shore a queen,” he muttered, and hastened to meet her.

 
          
She
received him with a baffling smile and presented her companion.

 
          
“Miss
Lora,” he said. “The Monte is honoured indeed; if I’d knowed … Pleased to
meetcha, Miss Ducane. Hello, Paul; yo’re a public benefactor, for once;
Deadwood don’t see near enough of its most charmin’ citizens.” He led the way
to a table set apart, at which two men were sitting. They rose, bowed to the
women, and would have moved away but Stark protested:

 
          
“Set
down, boys, you know pretty near everybody here. Miss Ducane, meet Jack Lider
an’ Bill Eddy, two o’ the town’s most prominent men.”

 
          
“Don’t
you believe him, ma’am,” Eddy smiled, as he shook hands. “There’s on’y one
prominent man in Deadwood an’ he’s goin’ to order a bottle of wine, ain’t you,
Reuben?”

 
          
“No,
sir,” Stark grinned. “I’m agoin’ to order two.” The wine was brought, the
ladies toasted, and the men began to discuss Deadwood’s most absorbing topic—gold.
Mary was free to study the strange scene. The noise was incessant. To the
jangle of the piano and scraping of the fiddles, she watched rough-shirted,
coatless men dancing, their heavy boots beating up clouds of dust from the
board floor. A few had female partners, others one of their own sex, and to
keep moving seemed to be the only rule observed.
Bursts of
laughter and an occasional good-natured oath when one couple collided with
another punctuated the proceedings.
On the other side of the room, where
the gamblers were gathered, there was little less din; above the rattle of
dice, the shuffling of feet, and whirr of the roulette wheel, players loudly
bemoaned their losses or exulted over their gains. Throughout the room men
wrangled and cursed each other, but she saw no violence.

 
          
Absorbed
in what was going on, Mary took little notice of the conversation, but she
gleaned that they were talking of the coach robbery, and that Eddy and Lider
were, after Stark, the principal sufferers.

 
          
“I
acted for the best,” she heard the saloonkeeper say. “Jacob vouched for Green,
an’ he was riskin’ a tidy bit hisself.”

 
          
“Perhaps
he was in on it,” Paul suggested.

 
          
“Hell!
I never thought o’ that,” Stark said. “Come to think, I ain’t seen him since,
neither.