by Various
Geraldine shrugged his shoulders and let his eye wander away as though the subject embarrassed him.
"Damn it!" said Pete with some show of anger, "don't go staring around like a cross-eyed girl. What's biting you?"
"It ain't my business," he said. "As long as I'm done for, I don't care what they do to you."
He stopped and drummed his finger-tips against his chin while he scowled at Pete.
"If it wasn't for you I'd be a free bird," he went on bitterly. "Do you think I'm goin' to weep any of the salt and briny for you, what?"
"Wha'd'ya mean?" Pete blurted. "D'ya mean to say them quitters are going to double-cross me?"
The Ghost answered nothing, but the shrug of his shoulders was eloquent. Pete started up with his gun in his hand.
"By God, Geraldine," he said, "you ain't playin' fair with me! Look what I done for you. Any other man would of plugged you the minute they seen you, but here I am lettin' you walk back safe and sound--treating you as if you was my own brother, almost!"
He hesitated a trifle over this simile. Legend told many things of what Silver Pete had done to his own brother. Nevertheless, Geraldine met his stare with an eye full as serious.
"I'm going to do it," he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself. "Just because you come out here and caught me like a man there ain't no reason I should stand by and see you made a joke of. Pete, I'm going to tell you!"
Pete settled back on his stone with his fingers playing nervously about the handle of his gun.
"Make it short, Geraldine," he said with an ominous softness. "Tell me what the wall-eyed cayuses figure on doin'!"
The Ghost studied him as if he found some difficulty in opening his story in a delicate manner.
"Look here, Pete," he said at last. "There ain't no getting out of it that some of the things you've done read considerable different from Bible stories."
"Well?" snarled Silver Pete.
"Well," said the Ghost, "those two-card Johnnies over to town know something of what you've done, and they figure to double-cross you."
He paused, and in the pause Pete's mouth twitched so that his teeth glinted yellow.
"Anybody could say that," he remarked. "What's your proof?"
"Proof?" echoed the Ghost angrily. "Do you think I'm telling you this for fun? No, Pete," he continued with a hint of sadness in his voice, "it's because I don't want to see those guys do you dirt. You're a real man and they're only imitation-leather. The only way they're tough is their talk."
"Damn them!" commented Pete.
"Well," said Geraldine, settling into the thread of his narrative, "they knew that once you left the town on this job you wouldn't come back until you had the Ghost. Then when you started they got together and figured this way. They said you was just a plain man-killer and that you hadn't any more right to the reward than the man in the moon. So they figured that right after you got back with the Ghost, dead or alive, they'd have the sheriff pay you a little visit and stick you in the coop. They've raked up plenty of charges against you, Peter."
"What?" asked Pete hoarsely.
The Ghost lowered his voice to an insinuating whisper.
"One thing is this. They say that once you went prospecting with a guy called Red Horry. Horace was his right name."
Silver Pete shifted his eyes and his lips fixed in a sculptured grin.
"They say that you went with him and that you was pals together for months at a time. They say once you were bit by a rattler and Red Horry stuck by you and saved you and hunted water for you and cared for you like a baby. They say you got well and went on prospecting together and finally he struck a mine. It looked rich. Then one day you come back to Truckee and say that Red Horry got caught in a landslide and was killed and you took the mine. And they say that two years later they found a skeleton, and through the skull, right between the eyes, was a little round hole, powerful like a hole made by a .45. They say--"
"They lie!" yelled Silver Pete, rising. "And you lie like the rest of them. I tell you it was--it was--"
"Huh!" said Geraldine, shrugging away the thought with apparent scorn. "Of course they lie. Nobody could look at you and think you'd plug a pal--not for nothing."
Pete dropped back to his stone.
"Go on," he said. "What else do they say?"
"I don't remember it all," said the Ghost, puckering his brows with the effort of recollection, "but they got it all planned out when you come back with the loot they'll take it and split it up between them--one-third to Collins, because he made the plan first.
"They even made up a song about you," went on Geraldine, "and the song makes a joke out of you all the way through, and it winds up like this--you're supposed to be talking, see?
"I don't expect no bloomin' tears; The only thing I ask Is something for a monument In the way of a whisky flask."
"Who made up the song, Geraldine?" asked Pete.
"I dunno," answered the Ghost. "I reckon Collins had a hand in it."
"Collins," repeated the gun-fighter. "It sounds like him. I'll get him first!"
"And it was Collins," went on the Ghost, leaning a little forward across the boulder, while he lowered his voice for secrecy. "It was Collins who got them to send out three men to watch you from a distance. They was to trail you and see that if you ever got to the Ghost you didn't make off with the loot without showing up in town. Ever see anybody trailing you, Pete?"
The gun-fighter flashed a glance over his shoulder toward the dark and gaping opening of the passage from the cave. Then he turned back to the Ghost.
"I never thought of it," he whispered. "I didn't know they was such skunks. But, by God, they won't ever see the money! I'll take it and line out for new hunting grounds."
"And me?" asked the Ghost anxiously.
"You?" said Silver Pete, and the whisper made the words trebly sinister. "I can't leave you free to track me up, can I? I'll just tie you up and leave you here."
"To starve?" asked the Ghost with horror.
"You chose your own house," said Pete, "an" now I reckon it's good enough for you to live in it."
"But what'll you do if they're following you up?" suggested the Ghost. "What'll you do if they've tracked you here and the sheriff with them? What if they get you for Red Horry?"
The horse had wandered a few paces away. Now its hoof struck a loose pebble which turned with a crunching sound like a footfall.
"My God!" yelled the Ghost, springing up and pointing toward the entrance passage, "they've got you, Pete!"
The gun-fighter whirled to his feet, his weapon poised and his back to the Ghost. Geraldine drew back his arm and lunged forward across the boulder. His fist thudded behind Silver Pete's ear. The revolver exploded and the bullet clicked against a rock, while Pete collapsed upon his face, with his arms spread out crosswise. The Ghost tied his wrists behind his back with a small piece of rope. Silver Pete groaned and stirred, but before his brain cleared his ankles were bound fast and drawn up to his wrists, so that he lay trussed and helpless. The Ghost turned him upon one side and then, strangely enough, set about clearing up the tinware from the boulder. This he piled back in its niche after he had rinsed it at the runlet of water. A string of oaths announced the awakening of Silver Pete. Geraldine went to him and leaned over his body.
Pete writhed and cursed, but Geraldine kneeled down and brushed the sand out of the gun-fighter's hair and face. Then he wiped the blood from a small cut on his chin where his face struck a rock when he fell.
"I have to leave you now, Pete," he said, rising from this work of mercy. "You've been good company, Pete, but a little of you goes a long way."
He turned and caught his horse by the bridle.
"For God's sake!" groaned Silver Pete, and Geraldine turned. "Don't leave me here to die by inches. I done some black things, Geraldine, but never nothing as black as this. Take my own gun and pull a bead on me and we'll call everything even."
The Ghost smiled on him.
He led his horse slowly down the passage, and the shouts and pleadings of Silver Pete died out behind him. At the mouth of the passage his greatest shout rang no louder than the hum of a bee.
Grimly silent was the conclave in Billy Hillier's saloon. That evening, while the sunset was still red in the west, the Ghost had stopped the stage scarcely a mile from Murrayville, shot the sawed-off shotgun out of the very hands of the only guard who dared to raise a weapon, and had taken a valuable packet of the "dust." They sent out a posse at once, which rode straight for Hunter's Cañon, and arrived there just in time to see the fantom horseman disappear in the mouth of the ravine. They had matched speed with that rider before, and they gave up the vain pursuit. That night they convened in Hillier's, ostensibly to talk over new plans for apprehending the outlaw, but they soon discovered that nothing new could be said. Even Collins was silent, twisting his glass of whisky between his fingers and scowling at his neighbors along the bar. It was small wonder, therefore, if not a man smiled when a singing voice reached them from a horseman who cantered down the street:
"I don't expect no bloomin' tears; The only thing I ask Is something for a monument In the way of a whisky flask."
The sound of the gallop died out before the saloon, the door opened, and Geraldine staggered into the room, carrying a small but apparently ponderous burden in his arms. He lifted it to the bar which creaked under the weight.
"Step up and liquor!" cried Geraldine in a ringing voice. "I got the Ghost!"
A growl answered him. It was a topic over which they were not prepared to laugh.
"Get out and tell that to your hoss, son," said one miner. "We got other things to think about than your damfoolery."
"Damfoolery?" echoed Geraldine. "Step up and look at the loot! Dust, boys, real dust!"
He untied the mouth of a small buckskin bag and shoved it under the nose of the man who had spoken to him. The latter jumped back with a yell and regarded Geraldine with fascinated eyes.
"By God, boys," he said, "it _is_ dust!"
Geraldine fought off the crowd with both hands.
"All mine!" he cried. "Mine, boys! You voted the loot to the man who caught the Ghost!"
"And where's the Ghost?" asked several men together.
"Geraldine," said Collins, pushing through the crowd, "if this is another joke we'll hang you for it!"
"It's too heavy for a joke," grinned Geraldine. "I'll put the loot in your hands, Collins, and when I show you the Ghost I'll ask for it again."
Collins caught his shoulder in a strong grasp.
"Honest to God?" he asked. "Have you got him?"
"I have," said Geraldine, "and I'll give him to you on one ground."
"Out with it," said Collins.
"Well," said Geraldine, "when you see him you'll recognize him. He's been one of us!"
"I knew it," growled Collins; "some dirty dog that lived with us and knifed us in the back all the time."
"But, remember," said Geraldine, "he never shot to kill, and that's why you sha'n't string him up. Is it a bargain?"
"It's a bargain," said Collins, "we'll turn him over to the sheriff. Are you with me, boys?"
They yelled their agreement, and in thirty seconds every man who had a horse was galloping after Collins and Geraldine. At the shrub beside the wall of the valley Geraldine drew rein, and they followed him in an awed and breathless body into the passage.
"I went out scouting on my own hook," explained Geraldine, as he went before them, "and I saw the Ghost ride down the cañon and disappear in here. I followed him."
"Followed up this passage all alone?" queried Collins.
"I did," said Geraldine.
"And what did you do to him?"
"You'll see in a minute. There was only one shot fired, and it came from his gun."
They turned the sharp angle and entered the lighted end of the passage. In another moment they crowded into the cave and stood staring at the tightly bound figure of Silver Pete. His eyes burned furiously into the face of Geraldine. The men swarmed about his prostrate body.
"Untie his feet, boys," said Collins, "and we'll take him back. Silver Pete, you can thank your lucky stars that Geraldine made us promise to turn you over to the law."
"How did you do it?" he continued, turning to Geraldine.
"I'm not very handy with a gun," said the Ghost, "so I tackled him with my fists. Look at that cut on his jaw. That's where I hit him!"
A little murmur of wonder passed around the group. One of them cut the rope which bound Pete's ankles together, and two more dragged him to his feet.
"Stand up like a man, Pete," said Collins, "and thank Geraldine for not cutting out your rotten heart!"
But Silver Pete, never moving his eyes from the face of the Ghost, broke into a long and full-throated laugh.
"Watch him, boys!" called Collins sharply. "He's going looney! Here, Jim, grab on that side and I'll take him here. Now start down the tunnel."
Yet, as they went forward, the rumbling laugh of the gun-fighter broke out again and again.
"I got to leave you here," said the Ghost, when they came out from the mouth of the passage. "My way runs east, and I got a date at Tuxee for to-night. I'll just trouble you for that there slicker with the dust in it, Collins."
Without a word the vigilance men unstrapped the heavy packet which he had tied behind his saddle. He fastened it behind Geraldine's saddle and then caught him by the hand.
"Geraldine," he said, "you're a queer cuss! We haven't made you out yet, but we're going to take a long look at you when you come back to Murrayville to-morrow."
"When I come back," said Geraldine, "you can look at me as long as you wish."
His eyes changed, and he laid a hand on Collins's shoulder.
"Take it from me," he said softly, "you've given me your word that the boys won't do Pete dirt. Remember, he never plugged any of you. He's got his hands tied now, Collins, and if any of the boys try fancy stunts with him--maybe I'll be making a quick trip back from Tuxee. Savvy?"
His eyes held Collins for the briefest moment, and then he swung into his saddle and rode east with the farewell yells of the posse ringing after him. By the time they were in their saddles Geraldine had topped a hill several hundred yards away and his figure was black against the moon. A wind from the east blew back his song to them faintly:
"I don't expect no bloomin' tears; The only thing I ask Is something for a monument In the way of a whisky flask."
"Look at him, boys," said Collins, turning in his saddle. "If it wasn't for what's happened to-night, I'd lay ten to one that that was the Ghost on the wing for his hiding-place!"
Contents
A PRAIRIE INFANTA
By Eva Wilder Brodhead
CHAPTER ONE
THE POWER OF CONSOLATION
At the first glance there appeared to be nothing unusual in the scene confronting Miss Jane Combs as she stood, broad and heavy, in her doorway that May morning, looking up and down the single street of the little Colorado mining-town.
Jane's house was broad and heavy also--a rough, paintless "shack," which she had built after her own ideals on a treeless "forty" just beyond the limits of Aguilar. It was like herself in having nothing about it calculated to win the eye.
Jane, with her rugged, middle-aged face, baggy blouse, hob-nailed shoes and man's hat, was so unfeminine a figure as she plowed and planted her little vega, that some village wag had once referred to her as "Annie Laurie." Because of its happy absurdity the name long clung to Jane; but despite such small jests every one respected her sterling traits,--every one, that is, except Señora Vigil, who lived hard by in a mud house like a bird's nest, and who cherished a grudge against her neighbor.
For, years before, when Jane's "forty" was measured off by the surveyor, it had been developed that the Vigil homestead was out of bounds, and that a small strip
of its back yard belonged in the Combs tract. Jane would have waived her right, but the surveyor said that the land office could not "muddle up" the records in any such way; she must take her land. And Jane had taken it, knowing, however, that thereafter even the youngest Vigil, aged about ten months, would regard her as an enemy.
Just now, too, as Alejandro Vigil, a ragged lad with a scarlet cap on his black head, went by, driving his goats to pasture, he had said "rogue!" under his breath. Jane sighed at the word, and her eyes followed him sadly up the road, little thinking her glance was to take in something which should print itself forever in her memory, and make this day different from all other days.
In the clear sun everything was sharply defined. From the Mexican end of town,--the old "plaza,"--which antedated coal-mines and Americanisms, gleamed the little gold cross of the adobe Church of San Antonio. Around it were green, tall cottonwoods and the straggling mud-houses and pungent goat-corrals of its people. Toward the cañon rose the tipple and fans of the Dauntless colliery, banked in slack and slate, and surrounded by paintless mine-houses, while to the right swept the ugly shape of the company's store. The mine end of the town was not pretty, nor was it quiet, like the plaza. Just at present the whistle was blowing, and throngs of miners were gathering at the mouth of the slope. From above clamored the first "trip" of cars. Day and its work had begun.
Alejandro's red cap was a mere speck in the cañon, and his herd was sprinkled, like bread-crumbs, over the slaty hills. But over in the Vigil yard the numberless other little Vigils were to be seen, and Jane, as she looked, began to see that some sort of excitement was stirring them. The señora herself stood staring, wide-eyed and curious. Ana Vigil, her eldest girl, was pointing. Attention seemed to be directed toward something at the foot of the hill behind Jane's house, and she turned to see what was going on there.
A covered wagon, of the prairie-schooner type, was drawn up at the foot of the rise. Three horses were hobbled near by, and a little fire smoked itself out, untended. The whole thing meant merely the night halt of some farer to the mountains. Jane, about to turn away, saw something, however, which held her. In the shadow of the wagon the doctor's buggy disclosed itself. Some one lay ill under the tunnel of canvas.