Wunpost

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XIV

  POISONED BAIT

  The fight for the Sockdolager Mine was on and Wunpost led off up thecanyon with a swagger. His fast walking mule stepped off at a brisk paceand the pack-mule, well loaded with provisions and grain, followed alongup Judson Eells' road. First it led through the Gorge, now clinging toone wall and now crossing perforce to the other, and as Wunpost saw thework of the powder-men above him he laughed and slapped his leg. Greatmasses of rock had been shot down from the sides, filling up thepot-holes which the cloudburst had dug; and then, along the sides, agrade had been constructed which gave clearance for loaded trucks. Pastthe Gorge, the work showed the signs of greater haste, as if Eells haddriven his men to the limit; but to get through at all he had had tomove much dirt, and that of course had run into money. Wunpost ambledalong luxuriously, chuckling at each heavy job of blasting and at thespot where Cole Campbell's road turned in; and then he swung off upWoodpecker Canyon to where the Stinging Lizard Mine had been located.

  Great timbers still lay where they had been dumped from the trucks,there was a concrete foundation for the engine; and a double-compartmentshaft, sunk on the salted vein, showed what great expectations had beenblasted. With the Willie Meena still sinking on high-grade ore, JudsonEells had taken a good deal for granted when he had set out to developthe Stinging Lizard. He had squared out his shaft and sunk on the veinonly as far as the muckers could throw out the waste; and then, insteadof installing a windlass or a whim, he had decided upon a gallows-frameand hoist. But to bring in his machinery he must first have a road, forthe trail was all but impassable; and so, without sinking, he hadblasted his way up the canyon, only to find his efforts wasted. The orehad been dug out before his engine was installed, thus saving him evengreater loss; but every dollar that he had put into the work had beenabsolutely thrown away. Wunpost camped there and gloated and then,shortly after midnight, he set off with his tongue in his cheek.

  The time had now come when he was to match wits with Lynch in the oldgame of follow-my-leader and, even with the Indian to do Lynch'stracking, he had no fears for the outcome. There were places on thosepeaks where a man could travel for miles without placing his foot onsoft ground, and other places in Death Valley where he could travel insand that was so powdery it would bog a butterfly. First the highplaces, to wear them out and make Pisen-face Lynch get quarrelsome; andthen the desolate Valley, with its heat and poison springs, to put thefinal touch to his revenge. For it was revenge that Wunpost sought,revenge on Pisen-face Lynch, who had driven him from two claims with agun; and this chase over the hills, which had started so casually, hadreally been planned for months. It was part of that "system" which hehad developed so belatedly, by which his enemies were all to beconfounded; and, knowing that Lynch would follow wherever he led,Wunpost had made his plans accordingly. He was leading the way into atrap, long set, which was sure to enmesh its prey.

  At daylight Wunpost paused in his steady, plunging climb and looked backover the rock-slides and boulders; and while his mules munched theirgrain well back out of sight he focussed his new field glasses andwatched. From the knife-blade ridge up which he had spurred andscrambled the whole country lay before him like a relief map, and in theparticular gash-like canyon where he had located the Stinging Lizard hemade out his furtive pursuers. The Indian was ahead, leaning over in hissaddle as he kept his eyes on the trail; and Lynch rode behind, a heavyrifle beneath his knee, scanning the ridges to prevent a surprise. Butneither led a pack-horse and when Wunpost had looked his fill he put uphis glasses and smiled.

  In the country where he was going there was no grass for those horses,no browse that even an Indian pony could travel on; and if they wantedto keep up with him and his grain-fed mules they would have to use quirtand spurs. And the man who feeds his horse on buckskin alone is due towalk back to camp. So reasoned John C. Calhoun from his cow-puncherdays, when he had tried out the weaknesses of horseflesh; and as hereturned to the grassy swale where his mules were hid he looked themover proudly. His riding mule, Old Walker, was still in his prime, abig-bellied animal with the long reach in its fore-shoulders which madeit by nature a fast walker; and his pack-mule, equally round-bellied tostore away food, was short-bodied as well so that he bore his packeasily without any tendency to give down. He had been raised with OldWalker and would follow him anywhere, without being dragged by a rope,so that Wunpost had both hands for any emergency which might arise andcould keep his eyes on the trail.

  And to think that these noble animals, big and black and beautifullygaited, had been bought with Judson Eells' own money; while he, poorfool, sent Lynch out after him on a miserable Indian cayuse. Wunpost'sroad was always plain, for where he went they must follow, but at everyrocky point or granite-strewn flat they must circle and cut for histrail. As he rode on now to the north he did not double and twist, forthe Indian would know the old trail; but the tracks he had left behindhim before he mounted to the ridge were as aimless as it was possible tomake them. They did not strike out boldly up some hogback or canyon butat every fork and bend they turned this way and that, as if he werehopelessly lost. And now as he rode on, unobserved by his pursuers, overthe well-worn Indian trail along the summit, Lynch and his tracker werefar behind, tracing his mule-tracks to and fro, up and down the broilinghot canyons.

  On the summit it was cool and the grass was still green, for the snowhad held late on the peaks, and the junipers and pinons had given placeto oaks and limber pines which stood up along the steep slopes likeswitches. The air was sweet and pure, all the world lay below him; but,as the heat came on, the abyss of Death Valley was lost in a pall ofblack haze. It gathered from nowhere, smoke-like and yet not smoke; ahaze, a murk, a mass of writhing heat like the fumes from a witches'cauldron. Wunpost had simmered in that cauldron, and he would simmeragain soon; but gladly, if he had Lynch for company. It wasfollow-my-leader and, since there were no long wharves to jump off of,Wunpost had decided upon the Valley of Death. And if, in following afterhim to rob him of his mine, Pisen-face Lynch should succumb to the heat,that might justly be considered a visitation of Providence to punish himfor his misspent life. Or at least so Wunpost reasoned and, rememberingthe gun under Lynch's knee, he decided to keep well in the lead.

  Wunpost camped that night at the upper water in Wild Rose Canyon,letting his mules get a last feed of grass; and the next morning atdaylight he was up and away on the long trail that led down to DeathValley. But first it led north over a broad, sandy plain, where Indianponies were grazing in stray bands; and then, after ten miles, it swungoff to the east where it broke through the hills and turned down. Afterthat it was a jump-off for six thousand feet, from the mountain-top todown below sea-level; and, before he lost himself in the gap between thehills, Wunpost paused and looked back across the plain.

  This was the door to his trap, for at the edge of the rim the trailsplit in twain; the Wet Trail leading past water while the Dry Trail wasshorter, but dry. And as live bait is best he unpacked and waitedpatiently until he spied his pursuers in the pass. They were not fivemiles away, coming down the narrow draw which marked the turn in thetrail, and after a long look Wunpost put up his glasses and saddled andpacked to go. Yet still he lingered on, looking back through theshimmering heat that seemed to make the yellow earth blaze; until atlast they were so near that he could see them point ahead and bringtheir tired horses to a stop. Then he whipped out his pistol and shotback at them defiantly, turning off up the Dry Trail at a trot.

  They followed, but cautiously, as if anxious to avoid a conflict andWunpost swung off between the points of two hills and led them on downthe dry canyon. If they took the Wet Trail, which the Indian knew, hemight double back and give them the slip; but now there was no watertill they had descended to sea level and crossed the treacherouscorduroy to Furnace Creek. The trap was sprung, they were committed tothe adventure, to follow him wherever he might lead; and Wunpost neverstopped spurring until he had descended the steep canyon and led themout in the dry was
h below. It was like climbing down a wall into asink-hole of boiling heat, but Lynch did not weaken and Wunpost bowedhis head and took the main trail to the ranch.

  The sun swung low behind the rim of the Panamints, throwing a shadowacross the broad canyon below; ten miles to the east, under the heat andhaze, lay Furnace Creek Ranch and rest; but as his pursuers came on,just keeping within sight of him, Wunpost turned off sharply to thenorth. He quit the trail and struck out across the boulder-patchestowards the point of Tucki Mountain, and if they followed him there itwould be into a country that even the Indians were afraid of. It wasthere that Death Valley had earned its name, when a party of Mormonemigrants had died beside their ox-teams after drinking the water atSalt Creek. There was Stove-pipe Hole, with the grave close by of theman who had not stopped to bail the hole; and, nearest of all, wasPoison Spring, the worst water in all Death Valley. Wunpost turned outand started north, daring his enemies to follow, and Lynch accept thechallenge--alone.

  The Indian rode on, leaving the white man to his fate and heading forFurnace Creek Ranch; and Wunpost, sweating streams and cursing tohimself, flogged on toward Poison Spring. It was a hideous thing to do,but Lynch had chosen to follow him and his blood would be upon his ownhead. Wunpost had given him the trail, to go on to the ranch while heturned back the way they had come; but no, Lynch was bull-headed, orperhaps the heat had warped his judgment--in any case he had elected tofollow. The last courtesies were past, Wunpost had given him his chance,and Lynch had taken his trail like a bloodhound; he could not claim nowthat he was going in the same direction--he was following along afterhim like a murderer. Perhaps the slow fever of the terrible heat hadturned his anger into an obsession to kill, for Wunpost himself wasbeginning to feel the desert madness and he set out deliberately to lurehim.

  Where the black and frowning ramparts of Tucki Mountain thrust outtowards the edge of the Sink a spring of stinking water rises up fromthe ground and runs off into the marsh. From the peaks above, it is abright strip of green at which the wary mountain sheep gaze longingly;but down in that rank grass there are bones and curling horns that havetaught the survivors to beware. It is Poison Spring, _the_ PoisonSpring in a land where all water is bad; and in many a long day Wunpostwas the only human being who had gazed into its crystal depths. For thewater was clear, too clear to be good, without even a green scum alongits edge; and the rank, deceiving grass which grew up below could nottempt him to more than taste it. But, being trailed at the time by somemen from Nevada who had seen the Sockdolager ore, he had conceived apossible use for the spring; and, coming back later, he had buried twocans of good water where he could find them when occasion demanded. Thiswas the trap, in fact, toward which for four days he had been leadinghis vindictive pursuers; it was poisoned bait, laid out by Natureherself, to strike down such coyotes as Lynch.

  Wunpost arrived at Poison Spring well along in the evening, the desertnight being almost turned to day by the splendor of a waning moon. Herode in across the flat and down the salt-encrusted bank, stillsweltering in the smothering heat; and the pounding blood in his brainhad brought on a kind of fury--a death-anger at Pisen-face Lynch. He duginto the sand and drew out the cans of water, holding his mules awayfrom the spring; and then, from a bucket, he gave each a small drinkafter taking a large one himself. There were two five-gallon cans, andafter he had finished he lashed the full one on the pack; the other one,which sloshed faintly if one shook it up and down, he tossed mockinglydown by the spring. And then he rode on, wiping the sweat from his browand gazing back grimly into the night.