COPPER STREAK TRAIL
by
EUGENE MANLOVE RHODES
Author of _Stepsons Of Light_, _Good Men And True_, _West Is West_, etc.
1917
TO THE READER OF THIS BOOK FROM ONE WHO SAW LIFE UNSTEADILY AND IN PART
CHAPTER I
The stage line swung aside in a huge half-circle, rounding the northernend of the Comobabi Range and swinging far out to skirt the foothills.Mr. Peter Johnson had never been to Silverbell: his own country lay farto the north, beyond the Gila. But he knew that Silverbell was somewhereeast of the Comobabi, not north; and confidently struck out to find ashort cut through the hills. From Silverbell a spur of railroad ran downto Redrock. Mr. Johnson's thought was to entrain himself for Tucson.
The Midnight horse reached along in a brisk, swinging walk, an optimisticwalk, good for four miles an hour. He had held that gait since threeo'clock in the morning, with an hour off for water and breakfast atSmith's Wells, the first stage station out from Cobre; it was nowhot noon by a conscientious sun--thirty-six miles. But Midnight did notcare. For hours their way had been through a trackless plain of uncroppedsalt grass, or grama, on the rising slopes: now they were in a country ofworn and freshly traveled trails: wise Midnight knew there would be waterand nooning soon. Already they had seen little bands of horses peeringdown at them from the high knolls on their right.
Midnight wondered if they were to find sweet water or alkali. Sweet,likely, since it was in the hills; Midnight was sure he hoped so. Thebest of these wells in the plains were salt and brackish. Privately,Midnight preferred the Forest Reserve. It was a pleasant, soft life inthese pinewood pastures. Even if it was pretty dull for a good cow-horseafter the Free Range, it was easier on old bones. And though Midnight wasnot insensible to the compliment Pete had paid him by picking him fromthe bunch for these long excursions to the Southland deserts, he missedthe bunch.
They had been together a long time, the bunch; Pete had brought them fromthe Block Ranch, over in New Mexico. They were getting on in years, andso was Pete. Midnight mused over his youthful days--the dust, theflashing horns, the shouting and the excitement of old round-ups.
It is a true telling that thoughts in no way unlike these buzzed in therider's head as a usual thing. But to-day he had other things to thinkof.
With Kid Mitchell, his partner, Pete had lately stumbled upon a secretof fortune--a copper hill; a warty, snubby little gray hill in aninsignificant cluster of little gray hills. But this one, and this oneonly, precariously crusted over with a thin layer of earth and windblownsand, was copper, upthrust by central fires; rich ore, crumbling, soft; ahill to be loaded, every yard of it, into cars yet unbuilt, on a railroadyet undreamed-of, save by these two lucky adventurers.
They had blundered upon their rich find by pure chance. For in thesouthwest, close upon the Mexican border, in the most lonesome cornerof the most lonesome county of thinly settled Arizona, turning back froma long and fruitless prospecting trip, they had paused for one last,half-hearted venture. One idle stroke of the pick in a windworn barepatch had turned up--this!
So Pete Johnson's thoughts were of millions; not without a queer feelingthat he wouldn't have the least idea what to do with them, and that hewas parting with something in his past, priceless, vaguely indefinable: asharing and acceptance of the common lot, a brotherhood with the notfortunate.
Riding to the northwest, Pete's broad gray sombrero was tilted asideto shelter from the noonday sun a russet face, crinkled rather thanwrinkled, and dusty. His hair, thinning at the temples, vigorous at theears, was crisply white. A short and lately trimmed mustache held a smilein ambush; above it towered such a nose as Wellington loved.
It was broad at the base; deep creases ran from the corners of it,flanking the white mustache, to a mouth strong, full-lipped andundeniably large, ready alike for laughter or for sternness.
The nose--to follow the creases back again--was fleshy and beaked atthe tip; it narrowed at the level bridge and broadened again where itjoined the forehead, setting the eyes well apart. The eyes themselveswere blue, just a little faded--for the man was sixty-two--and therewere wind-puckers at the corners of them. But they were keen eyes,steady, sparkling and merry eyes, for all that; they were deep-set andlong, and they sloped a trifle, high on the inside corners; pent in bypepper-and-salt brows, bushy, tufted and thick, roguishly aslant from theouter corners up to where they all but met above the Wellingtonian nose.A merry face, a forceful face: Pete was a little man, five feet seven,and rather slender than otherwise; but no one, in view of that face, everthought of him as a small man or an old one.
The faint path merged with another and another, the angles of convergencegiving the direction of the unknown water hole; they came at last to themain trail, a trunk line swollen by feeders from every ridge and arroyo.It bore away to the northeast, swerving, curving to pitch and climb infaultless following of the rule of roads--the greatest progress with theleast exertion. Your cow is your best surveyor.
They came on the ranch suddenly, rounding a point into a small naturalamphitheater. A flat-roofed dugout, fronted with stone, was built intothe base of a boulder-piled hill; the door was open. Midnight perked hisblack head jauntily and slanted an ear.
High overhead, a thicket of hackberry and arrow-weed overhung thelittle valley. From this green tangle a pipe line on stilts brokeaway and straddled down a headlong hill. Frost was unknown; the pipewas supported by forked posts of height assorted to need, an expedienteasier than ditching that iron hillside. The water discharged into afenced and foursquare earthen reservoir; below it was a small corralof cedar stakes; through the open gate, as he rode by, Pete saw a longwatering-trough with a float valve. Before the dugout stood a patriarchaljuniper, in the shade of which two saddled horses stood droop-hipped,comfortably asleep. Waking, as Pete drew near, they adjusted theirdisarray in some confusion and eyed the newcomers with bright-eyedinquiry. Midnight, tripping by, hailed them with a civil little whinny.
A tall, heavy man upreared himself from the shade. His example wasfollowed by another man, short and heavy. Blankets were spread on atarpaulin beyond them.
"'Light, stranger," said the tall man heartily. "Unsaddle and eat a smallsnack. We was just taking a little noonday nap for ourselves."
"Beans, jerky gravy, and bread," announced the short man, waiter fashion."I'll hot up the coffee."
With the word he fed little sticks and splinters to a tiny fire, nowalmost burned out, near the circumference of that shaded circle.
"Yes, to all that; thank you," said Pete, slipping off.
He loosened the cinches; so doing he caught from the corner of his eyetelegraphed tidings, as his two hosts rolled to each other a singlemeaningful glance, swift, furtive, and white-eyed. Observing which, everyfaculty of Pete Johnson's mind tensed, fiercely alert, braced toattention.
"Now what? Some more of the same. Lights out! Protect yourself!" hethought, taking off the saddle. Aloud he said:
"One of Zurich's ranches, isn't it? I saw ZK burned on the gateposts."
He passed his hand along Midnight's sweaty back for possible bruise orscald; he unfolded the Navajo saddle blanket and spread it over thesaddle to dry. He took the _sudaderos_--the jute sweatcloths under theNavajo--and draped them over a huge near-by boulder in the sun, carefullysmoothing them out to prevent wrinkles; to all appearance without anyother care on earth.
"Yes; horse camp," said the tall man. "Now you water the black horse andI'll dig up a bait of corn for him. Wash up at the trough."
"_Puesto que si!_" said Pete.
He slipped the bit out of Midnight's mouth, pushing the headstall back onthe sleek black neck by way of lead rope, and they strode away to thewater pen, side by side.
/> When they came back a nose-bag, full of corn, stood ready near the fire.Pete hung this on Midnight's head. Midnight munched contentedly, withhalf-closed eyes, and Pete turned to the fire.
"Was I kidding myself?" he inquired. "Or did somebody mention the name ofgrub?"
"Set up!" grinned the tall man, kicking a small box up beside a slightlylarger one, which served as a table. "Nothing much to eat but food.Canned truck all gone."
The smaller host poured coffee. Pete considered the boxes.
"You didn't pack these over here?" he asked, prodding the table with hisboot-toe to elucidate his meaning. "And yet I didn't see no wheel marksas I come along."
"Fetch 'em from Silverbell. We got a sort of wagon track through thehills. Closer than Cobre. Some wagon road in the rough places! Snakesthick on the east side; but they don't never get over here. Break theirbacks comin' through the gap. Yes, sir!"
"Then I'll just june along in the cool of the evenin'," observed Pete,ladling out a second helping of jerked venison. "I can follow your wagontracks into town. I ain't never been to Silverbell. Was afraid I mightmiss it in the dark. How far is it? About twenty mile, I reckon?"
"Just about. Shucks! I was in hopes you'd stay overnight with us. Billand me, we ain't seen no one since Columbus crossed the Delaware infourteen-ninety-two. Can't ye, now?" urged the tall man coaxingly. "We'llpitch horseshoes--play cards if you want to; only Bill and me's prettywell burnt out at cards. Fox and geese too--ever play fox and geese?We got a dandy fox-and-goose board--but Bill, he natcherly can't play.He's from California, Bill is."
"Aw, shut up on that!" growled Bill.
"Sorry," said Pete, "I'm pushed. Got to go on to-night. Want to take thattrain at seven-thirty in the morning, and a small sleep for myself beforethat. Maybe I'll stop over as I come back, though. Fine feed you gothere. Makes a jim-darter of a horse camp."
"Yes, 'tis. We aim to keep the cattle shoved off so we can save the grassfor the saddle ponies."
"Must have quite a bunch?"
"'Bout two hundred. Well, sorry you can't stay with us. We was fixin' toround up what cows had drifted in and give 'em a push back to the mainrange this afternoon. But they'll keep. We'll stick round camp; and youstay as late as you can, stranger, and we'll stir up something. I'll tellyou what, Bill--we'll pull off that shootin' match you was blowin'about." The tall man favored Johnson with a confidential wink. "Bill, heallows he can shoot right peart. Bill's from California."
Bill, the short man, produced a gray-and-yellow tobacco sack andextracted a greasy ten-dollar greenback, which he placed on the boxtable at Johnson's elbow.
"Cover that, durn you! You hold stakes, stranger. I'll show himCalifornia. Humph! Dam' wall-eyed Tejano!"
"I'm a Texan myself," twinkled Johnson.
"What if you are? You ain't wall-eyed, be you? And you ain't been makin'no cracks at California--not to me. But this here Jim--look at thewhite-eyed, tow-headed grinnin' scoundrel, will you?--Say, are you goin'to cover that X or are you goin' to crawfish?"
"Back down? You peevish little sawed-off runt!" yelped Jim. "I beenlettin' you shoot off your head so's you'll be good and sore afterward.I always wanted a piece of paper money any way--for a keepsake. Youwait!"
He went into the cabin and returned with a tarnished gold piece and a boxof forty-five cartridges.
"Here, stakeholder!" he said to Johnson.
Then, to Bill: "Now, then, old Californy--you been all swelled-up andstumping me for quite some time. Show us what you got!"
It was an uncanny exhibition of skill that followed. These men knewhow to handle a sixshooter. They began with tin cans at ten yards,thirty, fifty--and hit them. They shot at rolling cans, and hit them;at high-thrown cans, and hit them; at cards nailed to hitching-posts;then at the pips of cards. Neither man could boast of any advantage. Thefew and hairbreadth misses of the card pips, the few blanks at the longerranges, fairly offset each other. The California man took a slightlycrouching attitude, his knees a little bent; held his gun at his knee;raising an extended and rigid arm to fire. The Texan stood erect, almoston tiptoe, bareheaded; he swung his gun ear-high above his shoulder,looking at his mark alone, and fired as the gun flashed down. The littleCalifornia man made the cleaner score at the very long shots and inclipping the pips of the playing cards; the Texan had a shade the betterat the flying targets, his bullets ranging full-center where the otherbarely grazed the cans.
"I don't see but what I'll have to keep this money. You've shot away allthe cartridges in your belts and most of the box, and it hasn't got youanywheres," observed Pete Johnson pensively. "Better let your guns cooloff. You boys can't beat each other shooting. You do right well, too,both of you. If you'd only started at it when you was young, I reckonyou'd both have been what you might call plumb good shots now."
He shook his head sadly and suppressed a sigh.
"Wait!" advised the Texan, and turned to confront his partner. "You makeout quite tol'lable with a gun, Billiam," he conceded. "I got to hand itto you. I judged you was just runnin' a windy. But have you now showedall your little box of tricks?"
"Well, I haven't missed anything--not to speak of--no more than you did,"evaded Bill, plainly apprehensive. "What more do you want?"
Jim chuckled.
"Pausin' lightly to observe that it ought to be easy enough to best you,if we was on horseback--just because you peek at your sights when youshoot--I shall now show you something."
A chuck box was propped against the juniper trunk. From this the Texanproduced a horseshoe hammer and the lids from two ten-pound lard pails.He strode over to where, ten yards away, two young cedars grew side byside, and nailed a lid to each tree, shoulder-high.
"There!" he challenged his opponent. "We ain't either of us going to misssuch a mark as that--it's like putting your finger on it. But suppose thetree was shooting back? Time is what counts then. Now, how does thisstrike you? You take the lid on the left and I'll take the other. Whenthe umpire says Go! we'll begin foggin'--and the man that scores sixhits quickest gets the money. That's fair, isn't it, Johnson?"
This was a slip--Johnson had not given his name--a slip unnoticed byeither of the ZK men, but not by Johnson.
"Fair enough, I should say," he answered.
"Why, Jim, that ain't practical--that ain't!" protested Bill uneasily."You was talking about the tree a-shootin' back--but one shot will stopmost men, let alone six. What's the good of shootin' a man all topieces?"
"Suppose there was six men?"
"Then they get me, anyway. Wouldn't they, Mr. Umpire?" he appealed toPeter Johnson, who sat cross-legged and fanned himself with his bigsombrero.
"That don't make any difference," decided the umpire promptly. "To shootstraight and quickest--that's bein' a good shot. Line up!"
Bill lined up, unwillingly enough; they stuffed their cylinders withcartridges.
"Don't shoot till I say: One, two, three--go!" admonished Pete. "All set?One--two--three--go!"
A blending, crackling roar, streaked red and saffron, through blacksmoke: the Texan's gun flashed down and up and back, as a man snaps hisfingers against the frost; he tossed his empty gun through the sunlightto the bed under the juniper tree and spread out his hands. Bill wasstill firing--one shot--two!
"Judgment!" shouted the Texan and pointed. Six bullet holes werescattered across his target, line shots, one above the other; andpoor Bill, disconcerted, had missed his last shot!
"Jim, I guess the stuff is yours," said Bill sheepishly.
The big Texan retrieved his gun from the bed and Pete gave him thestakes. He folded the bill lovingly and tucked it away; but he flippedthe coin from his thumb, spinning in the sun, caught it as it fell, andglanced askant at old Pete.
"How long ago did you say it was when you began shootin'?" He voiced thequery with exceeding politeness and inclined his head deferentially. "Ordid you say?"
Pete pondered, pushing his hand thoughtfully through his white hair.
"Oh, I began tryin' wh
en I was about ten years old, or maybe seven.It's been so long ago I scarcely remember. But I didn't get to be whatyou might call a fair shot till about the time you was puttin' on yourfirst pair of pants," he said sweetly. "There was a time, though, beforethat--when I was about the age you are now--when I really thought I couldshoot. I learned better."
A choking sound came from Bill; Jim turned his eyes that way. Billcoughed hastily. Jim sent the gold piece spinning again.
"I'm goin' to keep Bill's tenspot--always," he announced emotionally."I'll never, never part with that! But this piece of money--" He threw itup again. "Why, stranger, you might just as well have that as not. Billcan be stakeholder and give us the word. There's just six cartridges leftin the box for me."
Peter Johnson smiled brightly, disclosing a row of small, white, perfectteeth. He got to his feet stiffly and shook his aged legs; he took outhis gun, twirled the cylinder, and slipped in an extra cartridge.
"I always carry the hammer on an empty chamber--safer that way," heexplained.
He put the gun back in the holster, dug up a wallet, and produced a goldpiece for the stakeholder.
"You'd better clean your gun, young man," he said. "It must be prettyfoul by now."
Jim followed this advice, taking ten minutes for the operation. Meantimethe Californian replaced the targets with new ones--old tin dinner platesthis time--and voiced a philosophical regret over his recent defeat. TheTexas man, ready at last, took his place beside Pete and raised his guntill the butt of it was level with his ear, the barrel pointing up andback. Johnson swung up his heavy gun in the same fashion.
"Ready?" bawled Bill. "All right! One--two--three--go!"
Johnson's gun leaped forward, blazing; his left hand slapped backalong the barrel, once, twice; pivoting, his gun turned to meet Bill,almost upon him, hands outstretched. Bill recoiled; Pete stepped asidea pace--all this at once. The Texan dropped his empty gun and turned.
"You win," said Pete gently.
Not understanding yet, triumph faded from the Texan's eyes at that gentletone. He looked at the target; he looked at Bill, who stood open-mouthedand gasping; then he looked at the muzzle of Mr. Johnson's gun. His faceflushed red, and then became almost black. Mr. Johnson held the guneasily at his hip, covering both his disarmed companions: Mr. Johnson'seyebrows were flattened and his mouth was twisted.
"It's loaded!" croaked Bill in a horrified voice. "The skunk only shotonce!"
Peter corrected him:
"Three times. I fanned the hammer. Look at the target!"
Bill looked at the target; his jaw dropped again; his eyes protruded.There were three bullet holes, almost touching each other, grouped roundthe nail in the center of Pete's tin plate.
"Well, I'm just damned!" he said. "I'll swear he didn't shoot but once."
"That's fannin' the hammer, Shorty," drawled Pete. "Ever hear of that?Well, now you've seen it. When you practice it, hold your elbow tightagainst your ribs to steady your gun while you slap the hammer back. Foryou, Mr. Jim--I see you've landed your six shots; but some of 'em aremighty close to the edge of your little old plate. Poor shootin'! Poorshootin'! You ought to practice more. As for speed, I judge I can do sixshots while you're making four. But I thought I'd best not--to-day. Son,pick up your gun, and get your money from Shorty."
Mr. Jim picked up his gun and threw out the empty shells. He glaredsavagely at Mr. Johnson, now seated happily on his saddle.
"If I just had hold of you--you benched-legged hound! Curse your soul,what do you mean by it?" snarled Jim.
"Oh, I was just a-thinkin'," responded Pete lightly. "Thinkin' howhelpless I'd be with you two big huskies, here with my gun empty. Don'tsnicker, Bill! That's rude of you. Your pardner's feeling plenty badenough without that. He looks it. Mr. Bill, I'll bet a blue shirt youtold the Jim-person to wait and see if I wouldn't take a little siesta,and you'd get me whilst I was snoozing. You lose, then. I never sleep.Tex, for the love of Mike, do look at Bill's face; and Bill, you look atMr. Jim, from Texas! Guilty as charged! Your scheme, was it, Texas? AndShorty Bill, he told you so? Why, you poor toddling innocents, you won'tnever prosper as crooks! Your faces are too honest.
"And that frame-up of yours--oh, that was a loo-loo bird! Livin' togetherand didn't know which was the best shot--likely! And every tin can insight shot full of holes and testifyin' against you! Think I'm blind,hey? Even your horses give you away. Never batted an eyelash durin' thatwhole cannonade. They've been hearin' forty-fives pretty reg'lar, themhorses have."
"I notice your old black ain't much gun-shy, either," ventured Bill.
"See here--you!" said the big Texan. "You talk pretty biggity. It'smighty easy to run a whizzer when you've got the only loaded gun in camp.If I had one damned cartridge left it would be different."
"Never mind," said Johnson kindly. "I'll give you one!"
Rising, he twirled the cylinder of his gun and extracted his threecartridges. He threw one far down the hillslope; he dropped one onthe ground beside him; he tossed the last one in the sand at the Texan'sfeet.
Jim, from Texas, looked at the cartridge without animation; he lookedinto Pete Johnson's frosty eyes; he kicked the cartridge back.
"I lay 'em down right here," he stated firmly. "I like a damned fool; butyou suit me too well."
He stalked away toward his horse with much dignity. He stopped halfway,dropped upon a box, pounded his thigh and gave way to huge and unaffectedlaughter; in which Bill joined a moment later.
"Oh, you little bandy-legged old son-of-a-gun!" Jim roared. "Youcrafty, wily, cunnin' old fox! I'm for you! Of all the holy shows,you've made Bill and me the worst--'specially me. 'There, there!' yousays, consolin' me up like I was a kid with a cracked jug. 'There, there!Never mind--I'll give you one!' Deah, oh, deah! I'll never be able tokeep this still--never in the world. I'm bound to tell it on myself!" Hewiped tears from his eyes and waved his hand helplessly. "Take the ranch,stranger. She's yours. I wouldn't touch you if you was solid gold andcharges prepaid."
"Oh, don't make a stranger of me!" begged Pete. "You was callin' me bythe name of Johnson half an hour ago. Forgot yourself, likely."
"Did I?" said Jim indifferently. "No odds. You've got my number, anyway.And I thought we was so devilish sly!"
"Well, boys, thank you for the dinner and all; but I'd best be jogging.Got to catch that train."
Knitting his brows reflectively he turned a questioning eye upon hishosts. But Shorty Bill took the words from his mouth.
"I'm like Jim: I've got a-plenty," he said. "But there's a repeatingrifle in the shack, if you don't want to risk us. You can leave it atSilverbell for us if you want to--at the saloon. And we can ride offthe other way, so you'll be sure."
"Maybe that'll be best--considerin'," said Pete. "I'll leave the gun."
"See here, Johnson," said Jim stiffly. "We've thrown 'em down, fair andsquare. I think you might trust us."
Pete scratched his head in some perplexity.
"I think maybe I might if it was only myself to think of. But I'mrepresenting another man's interest too. I ain't takin' no chances."
"Yes--I noticed you was one of them prudent guys," murmured Jim.
Pete ignored the interruption.
"So, not rubbin' it in or anything, we'd best use Bill's plan. You ladshike off back the way I come, and I'll take your rifle and drag it. Solong! Had a good time with you."
"_Adios!_" said Bill, swinging into the saddle.
"Hold on, Bill! Give Johnson back his money," said Jim.
"Oh, you keep it. You won it fair. I didn't go to the finish."
"Look here--what do you think I am? You take this money, or I'll be soreas a boil. There! So long, old hand! Be good!" He spurred after Bill.
Mr. Johnson brought the repeater from the dugout and saddled oldMidnight. As he pulled the cinches tight, he gazed regretfully athis late companions, sky-lined as they topped a rise.
"There!" said Mr. Johnson with conviction. "There goes a couple of rightnice boys!"<
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Copper Streak Trail Page 1