Louisiana Lou

by William West Winter

  CHAPTER XII

  A REMINDER OF OLD TIMES

  Much cheered and encouraged by his late adventures with the forces oflaw and order, De Launay fared onward to the south where the dim lineof the Esmeraldas lay like a cloud on the horizon. He was halfconscious of relief, as though something that had been hanging overhis head in threat had been proved nonexistent. He did not know whatit was and was content for the time being to bask in a sort of animalcomfort and exhilaration arising out of his escape into thefar-stretching range lands. Here were no fences, no farms, nogingerbread houses sheltering aliens more acquainted with automobilesthan with horses. He had passed the last of them, without interruptioneven from the justice of the peace who lived along the road. As amatter of fact, De Launay had left the road as soon as the fencespermitted and had taken to the trackless sage.

  Even after nineteen years or more his knowledge and instinct heldgood. Unerringly he seized upon landmarks and pushed his way overunmarked trails that he recalled from his youth. Before the sun setthat evening he had ridden up to the long-remembered ranch at TwinForks and swung from his saddle, heedless of two or three fiercemongrel sheep dogs that leaped and howled about him.

  The door that opened on the little porch, once hung with vines, butnow bare and gray, opened and a stolid, dark foreigner appeared. Heanswered De Launay's hail in broken English, but the l?gionnaire'squick ear recognized the accent and he dropped into French. The man atonce beamed a welcome, although the French he answered in was almostas bad as his English.

  He and his brother, he told De Launay, while assisting him to put uphis horse, were two Basques who had come out here fifteen years agoand had worked as herders until they had been able to save enough togo into business for themselves. They had gradually built up until,when Ike Brandon had died, they were in a position to buy his ranch.All of this was interesting to the soldier.

  The first flush of his plunge into old scenes had faded out, and hewas feeling a little lonely and depressed, missing, queerly enough,his occasional contact with mademoiselle. It came over him, suddenly,as he chattered with the Basque, in the kindly French tongue that wasmore familiar to him than his native English, that the vague dreadthat had been lifted had had to do with what he might expect atBrandon's ranch. That dread had vanished when he had encountered MissPettis. That was queer, too, for his recent debauch had been theproduct of sharp disappointment at finding her, as well as thecountry, so changed from what he had expected. Then why should he nowfeel as though a load were lifted from his mind since he had seen herand found her utterly wanting in any trait that he regarded asadmirable? He did not know, and for the time being he did not pause toinquire. With the directness born of long training in arms, he had amission to pursue and he gave his thought to that.

  The obvious thing was to question the Basque as to long-ago events.But here he drew blank. Neither this man nor his brother knew anythingbut vague hearsay, half forgotten. They had, it is true, known thestory of Pierre d'Albret and his murder, and had looked for his mineas others had, but they had never found it and were inclined to doubtthat it had ever existed.

  "Monsieur," said the hospitable Basque, as he set an incomprehensiblestew of vegetables and mutton on the table before the hungry DeLaunay, "these stories have many endings after so many years. It waslong after D'Albret was killed that we came into this country. It wasspoken of at the time as a great mystery by some, and by others it wasregarded as a settled affair. One side would have it that a man whowas a desperado and a murderer had done it, while others said that itwould never be known who had shot him. There is only this that Iknow. A man named Banker, who spends all his time searching for gold,has spent year after year in searching the Esmeraldas for D'Albret'smine and, although he has never found it, he still wanders in thehills as though he believed that it would be found at last. Now, whyshould this Banker be so persistent when others have abandoned thesearch long ago?"

  "I suppose because it is his business, as much as he has any, tosearch for gold wherever there is prospect of finding it," said DeLaunay, carelessly.

  "That may be so," said the Basque, doubtfully, "As for me, I do notbelieve that the mine was in the Esmeraldas at all. I have looked, asothers have, and have never seen any place where D'Albret might havedug. I have been through Shoestring Canyon many times and have seenevery foot of its surface. If D'Albret came through the canyon, as hemust have done, he must have left some sign of his digging. Yet whohas ever found such indications?"

  "Perhaps he covered it up?"

  "Perhaps! I do not know. The man, Banker, searches, not only in thecanyon but also throughout the range. And as he searches, he mutters tohimself. He is a very strange man."

  "Most prospectors, especially the old ones, are strange. Theloneliness goes to their heads."

  "That is true, monsieur, and it is the case with herders, as we haveknown. But Banker is more than queer. Once, when we were with ourflocks in the Esmeraldas, we observed, one evening, a fire at somedistance. My brother went over to see who it was and to invite him toshare our camp if he were friendly. He came upon the man, Banker,crouched over his fire and talking to himself. He seemed to belistening to something, and he muttered strange words which my brothercould not understand. Yet my brother understood one phrase which theman repeated many times. It was, as he told me, something like 'I willfind it. I will find it. I will find the gold.' But he also spoke ofeverybody dying, and my brother was uneasy, seeing his rifle lyingclose at hand. He endeavored to move away, but made some noise and theman heard him. He sprang to his feet with a cry of fear and shot withhis rifle in the direction of my brother. Fortunately he did not hithim and my brother fled away. In the morning we found that Banker haddeparted in great haste during the night as though he feared someattack."

  "H'm," said De Launay, "that's rather strange. But these old desertrats get strange attacks of nerves. They become very distrustful ofall human beings. He was frightened."

  "He may have been--indeed--he was. Nevertheless, the man Banker is aviolent man and very evil. When he is about, we go carefully, mybrother and I. If Pierre d'Albret was shot for no reason, what is toprevent us, who are also Basques, from being treated in the sameway?"

  "By Banker? Nonsense!"

  "Nonsense it may be, monsieur. Yet I do not know why it may not havebeen some one like Banker who shot D'Albret. But I talk too much toyou because you are French."

  He became reticent after that, and De Launay, who, whatever he mayhave thought of the man's opinions, did not intend to make a confidantof him, allowed the subject to drop. He slept there that night,feeling reasonably safe from pursuit, and in the morning went on hisway.

  But again, as he rode steadily across the alkali and sage, thelightness of heart that had long been unfamiliar, came back to him. Hefound himself looking back at his vague sentiment for the little girlof the years gone by and the strange notion that he must come back toher as he had so lightly promised. He had had that notion in the fullbelief that she must have developed as she had bade fair to do. It hadbeen a shock to find her as she was, but, after the shock, here wasthat incomprehensible feeling of relief. He had not wanted to findher, after all!

  But why had he not? At this point he found his mind shifting tomademoiselle's vivid and contrasting beauty and uttered a curse. Hewas getting as incorrigibly sentimental as a girl in her teens! Thisrecurring interest in women was a symptom of the disease he had notyet shaken off. The cure lay in the fresh air and the long trail.

  He pushed on steadily and rapidly, shutting his mind to everything butthe exigencies of the trail. In the course of time he rode into WillowSpring, and, cautiously pushing his way into the cottonwoods andwillows that marked the place, found everything there as he hadarranged with Sucatash Wallace. There were few tracks of visitorsamong the signs left by cattle and an antelope, except the prints ofone mounted man who had led two horses. The two horses he foundhobbled beside the spring, and with them were a tarpaulin-covered pileof provisions, bedding,
and utensils, together with packsaddles. Apaper impaled on a willow twig near by he pulled down, to find amessage written on it.

  "Two pack outfits according to inventory. Compliments of J. B.Wallace. Return or send the price to Lazy Y Ranch when convenient.Asking no questions but wishing you luck."

  He chuckled over this, with its pungent reminder of ancient days whenunhesitating trust had been a factor in the life of the range. Old manWallace, at the behest of his son, turning over to an unknown strangerproperty of value, seeking not to know why, and calmly confident ofeither getting it back or receiving payment for it, was a refreshingdraft from his youth. De Launay inspected his new property, found itall that he could wish and then set about his preparations for thenight.

  On the next day he saddled up early, after a meal at daybreak, but hedid not start at once. Instead, while smoking more than one thoughtfulcigarette, he turned over and over in his mind the problem thatconfronted him. He had pledged himself to help Solange in her search,but, rack his brains as he would, he could come to no conclusion aboutit except that it was simply a hopeless task. There was no point fromwhich to start. People who remembered the affair were few and farbetween. Even those who did could have no very trustworthyrecollections. There would have been an inquest, probably, and thatwould have been conducted in Maryville, east and south of themountains. But would there be any record of it in that town? Recallingthe exceedingly casual and informal habits of minor-elected officialsof those days, he greatly doubted it. Still, Maryville offered him hisonly chance, as he saw it.

  It took him all of that day and a part of the next to head around theEsmeraldas, across the high plateau into which it ran on the east anddown to the valley in which Maryville lay. Here he found thingschanged almost as much as they had at Sulphur Falls, although the townhad not grown in any such degree. The atmosphere, however, was strangeand staidly conventional. Most of the stores were brick instead ofwood with false fronts. The sidewalks were cement instead of boards.The main street was even paved. A sort of New England respectabilityand quietness hung over it. There was not a single saloon, and thedrone of the little marble in the roulette wheel was gone from theland. Even the horses, hitched by drooping heads to racks, werescarce, and their place was taken by numerous tin automobiles ofpopular make and rusty appearance.

  An inquiry at the coroner's office developed the fact that there wereno records reaching back beyond nineteen hundred and eight and theofficial could not even tell who had had the office in nineteenhundred.

  De Launay, who had expected little success, made a few more inquiriesbut developed nothing. There were few in the town who had lived therethat long, and while nearly all had heard something or other of themurdered Basque and his lost mine, they set it down to legend andshrugged their shoulders skeptically. The affairs of those who livednorth of the Esmeraldas were not of great concern to the inhabitantsof Maryville at any time and especially since the Falls had grown andoutshadowed the place. All business of the country now went that wayand none came over the barrier to this sleepy little place. In actualpopulation it had fallen off.

  Seeking for signs of the old general store that he recalled he foundon its site a new and neat hardware establishment, well stocked withagricultural implements, automobile parts, weapons, and householdgoods. He wandered in, but his inquiry met the response that theoriginal proprietor had long retired and was now living on a ranchsouth of the railroad. De Launay looked over the stock of weapons andasked to see an automatic pistol. The clerk laid an army modelforty-five on the counter and beside it another of somewhat similarappearance but some distinct differences.

  "A Mauser," he explained. "Lot of them come in since the war and it'sa good gun."

  "Eight millimeter!" said De Launay, idly picking up the familiarpistol. "It's a good gun but the ball's too light to stop a man right.And the shells are an odd size. Might have some difficulty gettingammunition for it out here."

  "None around here," said the clerk. "Plenty of those guns in thecountry. Most every store stocks all sizes nowadays. It ain't like itused to be when every one shot a thirty, a thirty-eight, aforty-five-seventy, or a forty-five-ninety. Nowadays they use 'em all,Ross & Saugge, Remingtons, Springfields, Colts; and the shells run allthe way from seven millimeter up through twenty-fives, eightmillimeter, thirty, .303, thirty-two, thirty-five, thirty-eight and soon. You can get shells to fit that gun anywhere you go."

  "Times have changed then," said De Launay, idly. "I can remember whenyou couldn't introduce a new gun with an odd caliber because a mancouldn't afford to take a chance on being unable to get the shells tofit it. Still, I'll stick to the Colt. Let me have this and a coupleof boxes of shells. And a left-hand holster," he added.

  There was nothing to keep him longer in the town since he saw nofurther prospect of getting any news, and his agreement to meetSolange necessitated his heading into the mountains if he were to bethere on time. So, at the earliest moment, he got his packs on andstarted out of town, intending to cross the range from the south andcome down into the canyon. The weather was showing signs of breaking,and if the snow should set in there might be difficulty in finding thegirl.

  That evening he camped in the southern foothills of the range just offthe trail that mounted to the divide and plunged again down intoShoestring Canyon. Next day he resumed his ride and climbed steadilyinto the gloomy forests that covered the slopes, sensing the snow thathovered behind the mists on the peaks and wondering if Solange wouldplunge into it or turn back. He rather judged of her that a littlething like snow would not keep her from her objective.

  But while the snow held off on this side of the mountains he knew thatit might well have been falling for a day or two on the other side.When he came higher he found that he had plunged into it, lying thickon the ground, swirling in gusts and falling steadily. He did not stopfor this but urged his horses steadily on until he had come to thewindswept and comparatively clear divide and headed downward towardthe canyon.