The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 45

CHAPTER XXV

WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB

When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn into a cruel longing for harm--harm calculated to be of the most merciless description.

Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler's mind. His outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart.

That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred burning in his heart.

All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the questions he would so gladly have put.

When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton's ranch.

Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts.

However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even mentioning his own adventure down at the river.

But if he neglected to do so, it was otherwise with his friends, the other members of the Trust. The moment his back was turned they shed the story broadcast, each man competing with the other in his endeavor to make it thoroughly palatable to the sensation-loving ears of their fellow-townsmen. And probably of them all Sandy was the most successful.

In half-an-hour, loyally supported by his friends, he had the whole of Suffering Creek strung to such a pitch of nervous excitement that every man was set looking to his firearms, and all talk was directed towards the most adequate means of defending their homes and property.

In the briefest possible time, from a peaceful, industrious camp, Suffering Creek was transformed into a war base, every citizen stirred not only to defense of his own, but with a longing to march out to the fray, to seek these land pirates in the open and to exterminate them, as they would willingly exterminate any other vermin.

Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial gla.s.s.

And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion.

Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted nerves.

Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose.

Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp generally were left defenseless.

What could he do? He must rid himself of the "dust" somehow. He must dispose of it secretly. A hiding--that seemed to him, amidst his trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers, he longed for the hours to pa.s.s until he could close his store and seek the gambler in his hut.

In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows, spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to a.s.sume the responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that he, and he alone, could see it through.

The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process, James' doings--his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence--had somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that everything this desperado did was a challenge to him--a sneering, contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his fingers under his very nose.

That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a simple philanthropist. It was the man's vanity, the headstrong vanity of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made his own.

He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind and body was seeking inspiration.

And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound; and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes.

"Gee!" he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing through the room.

And for an hour his att.i.tude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body.

It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his bunk.

"What's the time?" he demanded.

Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler's table.

"Nigh one o'clock," he said, with a faint smile.

But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm.

"Good," he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other's face. They were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had a heartening effect.

"Say," cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, "this is Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday," he counted the days off on his lean, muscular fingers. "That's it, sure. Wednesday we send out a 'stage,' an' you're goin' to ship your gold-dust on it. You'll ship it to Sp.a.w.n City. Meanwhiles you'll buy up all you feel like. Clean the camp out of 'dust,' an' ship it by that stage."

The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the words never matured. He was looking into the man's burning eyes, and he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.

"An'," he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut out the irony, "an' who's goin' to--drive it through?"

"I am."

The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.

"You?" he cried in a sharp whisper. "I--I don't get you."

The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.

"No, o' course you don't," he cried hotly; "course you don't. Here, how much 'dust' ken you ship?"

"Maybe we'd need to ship sixty thousand dollars' worth. That is, if we rake around among the boys."

Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book.

He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the table with a force that set the lamp rattling.

"There it is," he cried, with a fierce oath. "Ther's my bank-book.

Ther's seventy odd thousand dollars lyin' in the Sp.a.w.n City bank to my dogasted credit. See?" He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent forward. "I'm handin' you a check fer your dust," he went on. "I've seventy thousand dollars says I'm a better man than James an' all his rotten sc.u.m, an' that I'm goin' to shoot him to h.e.l.l before the week's out. _Now_ d'ye get me?"

Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.

For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his purpose when obstructed.

"You stand there shakin' your fool head like some mosey old cow," he cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. "An'

you'll go on shakin' it till ther' ain't 'dust' enuff in your store to bury a louse. You'll go on shakin' it till James' gun rips out your vitals. Gee!" He threw his arms above his head appealing. "Give me a man," he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table and shouted his final words: "Say, you'll get right out an' post the notices. I'm buyin' your 'dust,' an' I'm driving the stage."

CHAPTER XXVI

WILD BILL INSPECTS HIS CLAIM