The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 34

Then, too, he "dined" the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man's company, and his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official's almost unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.

Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.

However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a racing dog-train.

And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of lurid blasphemy.

Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses, but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a red-hot trail.

Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst Nature's chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.

Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?

Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.

On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.

At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy.

It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil, and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his horses--and his thoughts.

He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt, which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a violent curse.

"What in h.e.l.l--!" he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.

"Mackinaw!" he cried. "What you doin' out here?"

So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no attempt to even guess at Scipio's purpose. He put his question without another thought behind it.

Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the gra.s.s lining the trail, pa.s.sed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own presence there.

"Why," he said hesitatingly, "why, I'm out after a--a prospect I heard of. Want to get a peek at it."

The latter was said with more a.s.surance, and he smiled vaguely into his friend's face.

But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think.

He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin coats of his horses.

"An' you takin' her out to help you locate it?" he inquired, with a raising of his s.h.a.ggy brows.

"Not just that," Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously difficult to lie with Bill's steady eyes fixed on him. "Y'see--Say, am I near ten miles out from the camp?"

"Not by three miles." Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He sighed and lifted his reins.

"Guess I'll get on then," he said in the dogged tone of a man who has made up his mind to an unpleasant task.

But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.

"That wher' your prospect is?" he inquired casually.

Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further aggravation of the lie.

"Wher' did you hear of the prospect?" Bill demanded shrewdly.

"I--"

But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word prospect.

"Wot's 'prospect'?" she demanded.

Bill laughed without any change of expression.

"Prospect is wher' you _expect_ to find gold," he explained carefully.

The child's eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she hesitated, but finally she proceeded.

"That ain't wot we're goin' for," she said simply. "Poppa's goin' to take me wher' momma is. I'm goin' to momma, an' she's ever so far away. Pop told me. Jamie's goin' to stay with him, an' I'm goin' to stay with momma, an'--an'--I want Jamie to come too." Tears suddenly crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.

Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill's fierce eyes were curiously alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father.

At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed his relief that further lying was out of the question.

"I forgot--somehow--she knew. Y'see--"

But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no chance to continue.

"Say," he interrupted him, "ther's lies I hate, an' ther's lies that don't make no odds. You've lied in a way I hate. You've lied 'cos you had to lie, knowin' you was doin' wrong. If you hadn't know'd you was doin' wrong you wouldn't have needed to lie--sure. Say, you're not only handin' over that kiddie to her mother, you're handin' her over to that feller. Now, get to it an' tell me things. An'--you needn't to lie any."

Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another man's eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie's letter had inspired.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife's letter. He looked at it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached out and pa.s.sed it to the gambler.

"She's got to have her," he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy and conviction. "She's her mother. I haven't a right to keep her.

I--"

But Bill silenced him without ceremony.

"Don't yap," he cried. "How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin'

hot air?"

Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky's mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have willingly gone away--

"Tosh!" cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to take back.

"Eh?"

"I said 'tosh!'" replied the gambler. "How'd you get that letter?"

"It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone."

"Yes?"