The Golden Woman Part 8

"You've grit, Ike, an' guess I'm with you at any game like that."

Buck waited for the others. He had no wish to persuade them to any definite course. He had come there with definite instructions from the Padre, and in his own time he would carry them out.

A youngster, who had hitherto taken no part in the talk, suddenly lifted a pair of heavy eyes from the torn pages of a five-cent novel.

"Wal!" he cried abruptly. "Wot's the use o' ga.s.sin'? Let's light right out. That's how we sed 'fore you come along, Buck." He paused, and a sly grin slowly spread over his features. Then, lowering his voice to a persuasive note, he went on, "Here, fellers, mebbe ther' ain't more'n cents among us. Wal, I'd sure say we best pool 'em, an' I'll set right out over to Bay Creek an' git whisky. I'll make it in four hours. Then we'll hev jest one h.e.l.l of a time to-night, an' up stakes in the morning, fer--fer any old place out o' here. How's that?"

"Guess our few cents don't matter, anyways," agreed Curly, his dull eyes brightening. "I'd say the Kid's right. I ain't lapped a sup o'

rye in months."

"It ain't bad fer Soapy," agreed Beasley. "Wot say, boys?"

He glanced round for approval and found it in every eye except Slaney's. The bereaved father seemed utterly indifferent to anything except his own thoughts, which were of the little waxen face he had watched grow paler and paler in his arms only yesterday morning, until he had laid the poor little dead body in his weeping woman's lap.

Buck felt the time had come for him to interpose. He turned on Beasley with unmistakable coldness.

"Guess the Padre got the rest of his farm money yesterday--when the woman came along," he said. "An' the vittles he ordered are on the trail. I'd say you don't need to light out--yet."

Beasley laughed offensively.

"Still on the charity racket?" he sneered.

Buck's eyes lit with sudden anger.

"You don't need to touch the vittles," he cried. "You haven't any woman, and no kiddies. Guess there's nothing to keep you from getting right out."

He eyed the man steadily, and then turned slowly to the others.

"Here, boys, the Padre says the food and canned truck'll be along to-morrow morning. And you can divide it between you accordin' to your needs. If you want to get out it'll help you on the road. And he'll hand each man a fifty-dollar bill, which'll make things easier. If you want to stop around, and give the hill another chance, why the fifty each will make a grub stake."

The proposition was received in absolute silence. Even Beasley had no sneering comment. The Kid's eyes were widely watching Buck's dark face. Slaney had removed his pipe, and, for the moment, his own troubles were forgotten under a sudden thrill of hope. Curly Saunders sat up as though about to speak, but no words came. Abe Allinson, Ike, and Blue Gra.s.s Pete contented themselves with staring their astonishment at the Padre's munificence. Finally Slaney hawked and spat.

"Seems to me," he said, in his quiet, drawling voice, "the Padre sold his farm to help us out."

"By Gee! that's so," exclaimed Curly, thumping a fist into the palm of his other hand.

The brightening eyes lit with hope. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to have lost something of its depression.

Ike shook his head.

"I'm gettin' out. But say, the Padre's a bully feller."

Abe nodded.

"Ike's right. Slaney an' me's gettin' out, too. Devil's Hill's a cursed blank."

"Me, too," broke in the Kid. "But say, wot about poolin' our cents for whisky?" he went on, his young mind still intent upon the contemplated orgie.

It was Buck who helped the wavering men to their decision. He understood them. He understood their needs. The ethics of the proposition did not trouble him. These men had reached a point where they needed a support such as only the fiery spirits their stomachs craved could give them. The Padre's help would come afterward. At the moment, after the long weeks of disappointment, they needed something to lift them, even if it was only momentarily. He reached round to his hip-pocket and pulled out two single-dollar bills and laid them on the dusty ground in front of him.

"Ante up, boys," he said cheerfully. "Empty your dips. The Kid's right. An' to-morrow you can sure choose what you're going to do."

Then he turned to the Kid. "My plug Caesar's outside. Guess you best take him. He'll make the journey in two hours. An' you'll need to bustle him some, because ther's a kind o' storm gettin' around right smart. Eh?" He turned and glanced sharply at Beasley. "You got a dollar?"

"It's fer whisky," leered the ex-Churchman, as he laid the dirty paper on the top of Buck's.

In two minutes the pooling was completed and the Kid prepared to set out. Eight dollars was all the meeting could muster--eight dollars collected in small silver, which represented every cent these men possessed in the world. Buck knew this. At least he could answer for everybody except perhaps Beasley Melford. That wily individual he believed was capable of anything. He was sure that he was capable of accepting anything from anybody, while yet being in a position to more than help himself.

Buck went outside to see the Kid off, and some of the men had gathered in the doorway. They watched the boy swing himself into the saddle, and the desperate shadows had lightened on their hungry faces. The buoyancy of their irresponsible natures was rea.s.serting itself. That bridge, which the Padre's promise had erected between their despair and the realms of hope, however slight its structure, was sufficient to lift them once more to the lighter mood so natural to them.

So their tongues were loosened, and they offered their messenger the jest from which they could seldom long refrain, the coa.r.s.e, deep-throated jest which sprang from sheer animal spirits rather than any subtlety of wit. They forgot for the time that until Buck's coming they had contemplated the burial of a comrade's only remaining offspring. They forgot that the grieving father was still within the hut, his great jaws clenched upon the mouthpiece of his pipe, his hollow eyes still gazing straight in front of him. That was their way.

There was a slight ray of hope for them, a brief respite. There was the thought, too, of eight dollars' worth of whisky, a just portion of which was soon to be in each stomach.

But Buck was not listening to them. He had almost forgotten the messenger riding away on his treasured horse, so occupied was he by the further change that had occurred in the look of the sky and in the atmosphere of the valley. Presently he lifted one strong, brown hand to his forehead and wiped the beads of perspiration from it.

"Phew! What heat! Here," he cried, pointing at Devil's Hill, away to his left, "what d'you make of that?"

For a moment all eyes followed the direction of his outstretched arm.

And slowly there grew in them a look of awe such as rarely found place in their feelings.

The crown of the hill, the whole of the vast, black plateau was enveloped in a dense gray fog. Above that hung a mighty, thunderous pall of purple storm-cloud. Back, away into the mountains in billowy rolls it extended, until the whole distance was lost in a blackness as of night.

It was Curly Saunders who broke the awed silence.

"Jumpin' Mackinaw!" he cried. Then he looked after their departing messenger. "Say, that feller oughtn't to've gone to Bay Creek. He'll never make it."

Beasley, whose feelings were less susceptible, and whose mind was set on the promised orgie, sneered at the other's tone.

"Skeered some, ain't you? Tcha'! It's jest wind----"

But he never completed his sentence. At that instant the whole of the heavens seemed to split and gape open. A shaft of light, extending from horizon to horizon, paralyzed their vision. It was accompanied by a crash of thunder that set their ear-drums well-nigh bursting. Both lightning and the thunder lasted for what seemed interminable minutes and left their senses dazed, and the earth rocking beneath their feet. Again came the blinding light, and again the thunder crashed.

Then, in a moment, panic had set in, and the tattered blanket had fallen behind the last man as a rush was made for the doubtful shelter of the hut.

CHAPTER VI

OUT OF THE STORM

The challenge had gone forth. In those two vivid shafts of light, in the deafening peals of thunder the war of elements had been proclaimed, and these men of the wilderness understood something of their danger.

Thereafter, for some moments, a threatening silence reigned everywhere. The birds, the insects even, all life seemed to crouch, hushed and expectant. The valley might have been the valley of death, so still, so dark, so threatening was the superheated atmosphere that hung over it.

The men within the shelter of the hut waited, and only Buck and Blue Gra.s.s Pete stood near the blanket-covered doorway. There was little enough confidence in the inefficient shelter of the hut, but it was their natural retreat and so they accepted it. Then the moment of tension pa.s.sed, and Buck, glancing swiftly round the hut, seized a hammer and hastily secured the covering of the doorway.

"She'll be on us right smart," he observed to Pete, who a.s.sisted him while the others looked on.