by Zane Grey
Kalispel had talked often with Blair, and somehow their positions had become reversed. The advice and solicitation now came from Kalispel. After all, Blair had not made as good a deal in his gold claim as he had fondly believed. His gravel bar had suddenly panned out. And digging among the rocks of his claim for nuggets or quartz had not been successful. He had begun to drink and gamble, moderately, as was common among the better class of miners, yet even that little had lately made a subtle difference in him. Wherefore Kalispel, summing up, decided that it was about time for him to step out of his quiet, watchful isolation.
He walked down to the stream, to the big camp where Hadley and Jones, two progressive miners, maintained a mess for eight of their comrades. Kalispel dropped in on them at supper-time. He was not exactly friendly with these men, but knew that through the weeks they had unlearned some of the lessons gossip and ill-will had taught them.
“Jones, I’ve an idee,” said Kalispel. “How are you off for meat?”
“Meat? — Jehoshephat! Costs us more than ham an’ bacon.”
“How’ll it be when the snow flies?”
“If it grows any harder to get we’ll blow this grub-shack, an’ thet’s no lie.”
“I’m thinkin’ of huntin’ meat to sell. What’ll you pay a pound for fresh venison an elk?”
“Thet’s a good idee, Emerson. Are you serious?”
“Shore. I’ve got to live. I’m a poor miner, but a good hunter. Will you pay ten cents a pound till fall, an’ more when the snow flies?”
“You bet I will. An’ jump at a hundred pounds a week, an’ double thet when winter comes.”
“Done. It’ll be no trick for me. I’ve a horse an’ burros.”
“Kalispel,” spoke up Hadley, the young partner of Jones, “you’d be doin’ us a service. Lack of meat is the drawback in this mess. An’ thet holds all over town.”
“Wal, I’ll see if I can drum up some more customers. An’ if I can, I won’t trade for any of your claims.”
“Small chance of you gettin’ a whack of mine,” called out a miner, cheerfully. “Look at this.”
Kalispel stepped over to have placed in his hands a bright smooth nugget weighing in excess of three ounces.
“Gosh! That’s the biggest I ever saw,” exclaimed Kalispel, as he returned it.
“This ain’t a marker to the one sold to Leavitt by a miner. Three hundred dollars he got for it. An’ you can gamble thet if Leavitt paid so much it was worth a good deal more.”
“Yes, an’ our hard-fisted judge grabbed the Woodbury claim today,” interposed another miner.
“I hadn’t heard,” replied Kalispel, quietly. “You fellows know I’m particular interested in how Judge Leavitt acquires land, cold, claims, an’ quartz veins.”
“Haw! Haw! — Wal, this was easy. Leavitt has the decidin’ of all claims, you know. An’ he took over most of Woodbury’s because thet hombre stepped high, wide, an’ handsome when he stepped off his claim. Course the miners in on the meetin’ were thick with Leavitt an’ voted Woodbury out. There’s some gossip floatin’ about. Leavitt, Borden, Lowrie, an’ a few more are playin’ a high-handed game these days.”
Kalispel went on down the trail, pondering what he had heard. He stopped at camps of miners he knew and got not only orders for fresh meat, but also sincere thanks for the offer.
There were several trails leading into town and the one on which he found himself happened to pass the Blair cabin. This time Kalispel did not avoid it.
The hour was almost dusk, but the magnificent afterglow of sunset reflected down into the valley, bathing it in rosy light. The day had been hot, and now the drowsy heat had begun to yield to the cool air from the heights.
Blair sat on his porch steps, smoking. Kalispel heard voices, and as he recognized Sydney’s, he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“Howdy, Blair,” drawled Kalispel, as he leisurely halted. “Any dust these days?”
“Hello yourself,” replied Blair. “Where you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Me? Aw, I been meditatin’ on a misspent life,” said Kalispel, coolly.
Sydney stepped from the back of the porch to the rail. She wore white. Kalispel bowed and greeted her.
“Good evening,” she rejoined, in perfect composure.
Kalispel’s quick glance noted the sweet, troubled face, and the dark eyes that swept over him. Then he looked back at Blair, striving to hide the tumult sight of her had roused in him.
“Kalispel, the only dust around this claim is what blows in from the trails,” said Blair, disgustedly.
“All panned out?”
“Ha! — My neighbor, Dick Swan, an old miner, says the bar in front of my claim was planted.”
“Dad, you should not say things you can’t prove,” interposed Sydney, quickly. “Especially to an enemy of Rand Leavitt.”
“Oh, well, what’s the use?” returned Blair, wearily. “I’ll have to buy another claim.... How you making out, Kalispel? Never saw you look so fine. Still digging up in the rocks?”
“Not much. I hate it ‘most as bad as I did diggin’ fence-post holes back in Wyomin’. Blair, what I dropped over to see you about is this. I’m goin’ to hunt game an’ sell fresh meat to the miners. Would you like some?”
“Fresh meat? Lord, yes! We’ve been living on canned stuff. But ask Sydney here. She does the buying.”
“How about it, Miss Blair?” inquired Kalispel, easily. “Would you like a nice fat haunch of venison now an’ then?”
“So you intend making honest use of your one talent?” she said, in a level voice that irritated and mystified Kalispel. Why could she not be civil?
“Butcherin’, you mean,” rejoined Kalispel, in a voice as controlled as hers. “Shore. I’m gettin’ out of practice handlin’ guns. An’ sooner or later now I’m shore to buck into Borden or Lowrie — or Leavitt.”
She vibrated slightly to that, but her reply was an inscrutable gaze from eyes now shadowy and deep. Then she wheeled away from the rail.
Blair laughed, not without a tinge of bitterness. “Sydney’s testy these days, Kalispel. No wonder. But you fetch the venison.”
“Thanks, Blair.” Then Kalispel bent close to whisper. “If you get up against it in any way — come to see me.”
Blair regarded him with haggard eyes. “Son, I’m ashamed to do it, after that spiel I gave you weeks ago.”
“Hell! Never mind that. It served its turn.... Are things goin’ bad?”
Blair whispered, after a glance back on the porch. “I’ve lost a good deal of money gambling.”
“Aw!” and Kalispel made a passionate gesture. “Pritchard?”
“Mostly to him. But others, also. I was way ahead at first. If I’d only had sense enough to quit then! Now I’ve got to play to get even.”
“You never will, Blair. Take a hunch from me. Never with this gang. They’ll fleece the skin off you.”
“Fleece! Do you mean to imply the game is crooked?”
“Good Heavens, man! Don’t you know that?”
“No. I don’t. But by Heaven! I’ll watch them next time.” Blair appeared to be stubborn, somber, thick, and hard to reach. Kalispel had seen that change in hundreds of genial and wholesome men. It came from drink. Kalispel sustained a sudden sharp misgiving about Blair. So many Easterners were too soft to tackle the adversity of the West. Yet he was not a man who could be criticized. Kalispel thought rapidly.
“All right. I’ll watch them with you,” he replied, curtly, and turned to go.
“Hold on, Emerson,” called Blair, rising and taking Kalispel’s arm. “You won’t go in these gambling-halls on my account, will you?”
“I shore will. Sydney’s goin’ back on me is no reason for me to go back on you.”
“But, son, listen,” returned Blair, in distress. “Sure as you do that you’ll be using your gun again.”
“Like as not. Will that jar you?”
“Not by a damn sight!” retorted Blai
r. “I was thinking of... Never mind now. Anyway, I appreciate your friendship. And, by thunder! I think you have been unjustly maligned. They’ve all got you wrong, and that goes for my own daughter.”
He squeezed Kalispel’s arm and abruptly returned to the porch, turning at the steps to call back: “I’ll let you know when I’m going to buck the tiger again.”
“Fine. I might set in the game myself,” called Kalispel, which remark was inspired by Sydney’s white form once more against the rail.
“Dad, is he persuading you to gamble?” came in Sydney’s high-pitched voice.
“Hell no!” rasped Blair. “He’s been trying to stop me. That boy is the only friend we’ve made. You don’t savvy the West. You don’t appreciate that cowboy. You’ve allowed your absurd squeamishness and that blighter Leavitt—”
Kalispel passed on out of hearing. He would like to have heard Sydney’s reply to that last reproach of her father. Kalispel found his blood racing unwontedly and a choking sensation in his throat. He had been responsible for getting the Blairs into this unhappy situation. What would be the end?
He went downtown. Thunder City was having its supper hour; nevertheless, that in no wise detracted from the appearance of activity. The yellow lights of the main street flared brightly; it was crowded with moving figures; music and laughter vied with the hum of conversation. The saloons were full of drinkers, loungers, miners selling and buying claims, gamblers on the lookout for prey, adventurers of every type.
Kalispel started in to make a round of all the stores, halls, resorts, houses, on the street. He took supper in the third place, a restaurant of pretensions, newly started. There were several women present, not of the dance-hall stripe, and one of them, young, handsome, richly clad, manifested interest in Kalispel, and bowed to him with the freedom prevalent in the mining-camp. He doffed his sombrero and approached her table.
“I reckon you ladies are shore lost here in Thunder City,” he said, with his winning smile.
“We would not have missed it for the world,” returned the handsome young woman. The other two smiled their corroberation and frankly flattered him with their glances. The man accompanying them was obviously not a mining-man. He said they were travelers going home from California and had not been able to resist the lure of a gold stampede.
“Did you enjoy the ride in?” queried Kalispel, of the youngest woman.
“It was terrible, but wonderful,” she replied, enthusiastically. “We rode, walked, fell off, and rode again.”
“An’ now you’re here — what?”
“I’d like to stay,” she said, frankly.
“Wal, you’d shore be an asset to Thunder City,” drawled Kalispel, admiringly. “No trouble drawin’ yourself a husband!
Now if you’re lookin’ for one I’d—”
They interrupted him with merry laughter, in which their escort joined.
“The delightful simplicity and suddenness of you Westerners!” exclaimed the pretty one. “You don’t look like the rest of these miners, though.”
“I’m no miner,” rejoined Kalispel, in his coolest, laziest voice, enjoying the incident hugely and playing up to it. “My name is Kalispel Emerson. Used to be a cowboy. Sorry to add, lady — just now a desperado.”
“Indeed? How thrilling!... So I have a proposal from a desperado? Are you one of those Mr. Leavitt said were to be run out of Thunder City — or hanged?”
“I reckon not, lady,” replied Kalispel, stiffening, and passed on, to their evident disappointment. He could not escape Leavitt’s name. Everywhere he went Leavitt somehow intruded upon any word.
Kalispel passed out upon his round of the street, with a consciousness that it did not require much to kindle the old spirit of fire. About the only thing that could save Leavitt and Borden and Lowrie from facing him soon was for the mountain to slide down and bury the gold camp. In the Dead Eye Saloon he ran straight into Lowrie, but saw that individual first.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” he said, with careless nonchalance that had a bite in it. “Are you still trailin’ Montana cowboys?”
“Howdy, Kalispel,” returned the other, gruffly. “No, I reckon not, so long as they keep the peace.”
“Wal, I’m not drinkin’ or gamblin’, these days.”
“What are you doin’? Look fit an’ pert to me. An’ prosperous, too.”
“Shore, I’m all three. Just hangin’ around for my brother to come. Then we’ll hunt for Sam, my other brother, who made this gold strike.”
“So I heard, Kalispel,” rejoined the sheriff, ponderingly. “You don’t look loco. But thet talk shore is.”
“Lowrie, you know damn well I wouldn’t make that claim if it wasn’t true,” snapped Kalispel, coldly, and backed out into the throng on the street.
He watched gambling games in several halls. Then he went into Bull Mecklin’s, reputed to be the toughest den in the gold-diggings; and was there invited by gamesters to join them. Kalispel smilingly responded that he hated to win money from anyone. And as he did not play or approach the bar he attracted the attention of the proprietor, a massiveheaded, thick-necked man whose name fitted him. He gruffly asked Kalispel what he wanted there.
“I’m lookin’ for a man,” replied Kalispel, significantly, and was severely let alone after that. Some one recognized him, however, and he heard the whisper: “Kalispel, Montana gun-slinger!”
Thunder City was a bonanza gold-strike, the scene of Idaho’s great stampede, and it was full of raw, bold characters, many of whom were dishonest; but it had nothing of the menace Kalispel had known in cattle towns of Wyoming and Montana. Here he was an object of curiosity, a notorious person to be let alone, a doubtful and sinister figure. Back there he would have been encountered in every saloon and gambling-hall by some hard-lipped youngster or lean-faced man who did not like the look of him or the way he packed his gun. Thunder City was new; it would grow wild if the gold lasted.
Finally Kalispel strolled into the most pretentious resort of the street, one that had just been erected and not yet named. It occupied the largest structure in the mining-town, a barnlike frame outside and a markedly contrasting gaudy interior. Music, gay voices, shrill mirth, clink of gold and crash of glass, a shuffle of rough boots — these united in a roar. Kalispel was surprised to run into the pretty little girl he had met in the Spread Eagle at Salmon.
“Howdy, Nugget,” he greeted her pleasantly. “What you doin’ away from Salmon. Did you shake the Spread Eagle?”
“Say, was I drunk when I met you — somewhere?” she asked, flippantly.
“You shore wasn’t. Why? That’s not flatterin’.”
“Because I wouldn’t forget a handsome gazabo like you. What’s your name?”
“Kalispel Emerson,” replied he, and related the incident of their meeting.
“Oh, I remember now. But you don’t look the same. Except your eyes.... Struck it rich, I’ll bet. All spruced up, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked! — Say, boy, you’d better let me alone.”
“Don’t you like me, Nugget?”
“If I didn’t, would I give you a hunch?”
“Let’s dance. I reckon I’m rusty, but I shore used to be slick.”
They joined the whirling throng on the wide dance-floor, and they had not progressed far when she said: “You may be rusty, Kalispel, but you’re pretty good. My God! what a relief to be free of these clodhoppers, heavy with liquor, bearded and dirty!”
“Nugget, it struck me over in Salmon that you were too nice a kid for this dance-hall life.”
She looked up at him, but made no reply.
“Who fetched you over here?” he went on, presently.
“I came with Borden’s outfit.”
“Borden? Oh, yes! He ran the Spread Eagle over there. Is there anyone in this deal with him?”
“Say, are you pumping me?”
“Sounds like that, I reckon. But listen, an’ then tell me or not, as you like.” As they danced around he briefly related the part hi
s brothers and he had played in the discovery of gold there in the valley, about his leaving with Jake and returning alone to find Sam gone, and the claim lost, his shooting of Selback and accusing of Leavitt.
“So you’re that fellow!” she whispered, excitedly. “You’re that bad hombre, then? You look it, Kalispel.... Well, go ahead and make love to me. It will make Rand Leavitt wild.”
“Ah-huh. — Is he sweet on you?”
“I wouldn’t call it sweet. He has reasons of his own for not being open about it. And I don’t mind telling you that he’s Borden’s partner here, on the sly, too.”
“Wal, thanks, Nugget. One more question. But don’t be hurt even if you won’t answer.... Is this man Borden responsible for your being here?”
“No. I can’t lay that to him exactly. I have to earn my living. But he’s a slave-driver. Ask the other girls.”
“Nugget, suppose you let me be your friend.”
“You mean make love to me?” The bitterness in her voice touched a deeper cord in Kalispel’s kindly nature.
“I don’t want to be that kind of friend, Nugget. I can be a better one. I admit, though, I’d shore have made love to you if my heart hadn’t been broken. You’re as pretty as the dickens. An’ nice. I like you.”
“Well, you’re a queer duck. But I like you, too. And you’re on. I won’t promise, though, not to fall in love with you.”
“I’ll risk that, Nugget.”
“You’ll risk more. It’s bound to look like you were drinking and making up with me. And if you get — well, too thick with me, Borden will rare. And so will Leavitt.”
“I reckon. Wal, I’ve made the offer.”
“You’re a deep one. What’s your game?”