We sauntered along peering into the various buildings. The saloons were here more elaborate than at Hangman’s, the gambling places larger, and with some slight attempt at San Francisco splendour. That is to say, there were large gilt-framed mirrors on the walls, nude pictures, and in some cases a stage for musical performers. One of the three stores was devoted entirely to clothing and “notions,” to us a new departure in specialization. We were sadly in need of garments, so we entered, and were at once met by a very oily, suave specimen of the chosen people. When we had escaped from this robber’s den we looked at each other in humorous dismay.
“Glad Yank don’t need clothes, anyway,” said Johnny.
We were, it will be remembered, out of provisions, so we entered also one of the general stores to lay in a small supply. The proprietor proved to be an old friend, Jones, the storekeeper at Hangman’s.
“Which,” said Johnny shrewdly, “is a sad commentary on the decline of the diggings at Hangman’s.”
Jones was evidently prosperous, and doing business on a much larger scale than at the old place; for in his commodious building were quantities of goods displayed and many barrels and boxes still unopened. He did not recognize us, of course; and we had to await the completion of a tale he was telling a group perched on the counters and on the boxes.
“Got a consignment of mixed goods from Mellin,” he was saying, “and one of the barrels wasn’t marked with anything I could make out. I knocked the top in, and chucked her out behind for spoiled beef. Certainly stunk like it. Well, sir, that barrel lay there for a good ten days; and then one day up drifted a Dutchman with a brogue on him thick enough to plant flag-poles in. ‘How mooch,’ says he ‘is dot stoof?’ ‘What stuff?’ says I. ‘Dot stoof oudt behind.’ ‘I ain’t got no stuff out behind! What’s eating you?’ says I. Then he points out that spoiled beef. ‘Good Lord!’ says I, ‘help yourself. I got a lot of nerve, but not enough to charge a man for anything that stinks like that beef. But you better let it alone; you’ll get sick!’ Well, sir, you wouldn’t think there was any Dutchmen in the country, now would you? but they came to that stink like flies to molasses. Any time I’d look out the back door I’d see one or two nosing around that old spoiled beef. Then one day another old beer-belly sagged in. ‘Say, you got any more barrels of dot sauerkraut?’ he wants to know. ‘That what?’ I asks. ‘Dot sauerkraut,’ says he, ‘like dot in the backyard. I gif you goot price for a whole barrel,’ says he. And here I’d give away a whole barrel! I might’ve got a dollar a pound for the stuff. I don’t know what it might be worth to a Dutchman.”
He turned away to wait on us.
“And you wouldn’t guess there was so many Dutchmen in the country!” he repeated.
We paid his terrible prices for our few necessities, and went out. The music was beginning to tune up from the gambling places and saloons. It reminded us of our Italian friend.
“Seems to me his place was right here where we are,” puzzled Johnny. “Hanged if I don’t believe this is the place; only they’ve stuck a veranda roof on it.”
We turned into the entrance of the hotel, to find ourselves in the well-remembered long, low room wherein we had spent the evening a few months before. It was now furnished with a bar, the flimsy partitions had been knocked out, and evidently additions had been constructed beyond the various closed doors. The most conspicuous single thing was a huge bulletin board occupying one whole end. It was written over closely with hundreds and hundreds of names. Several men were laboriously spelling them out. This, we were given to understand, was a sort of register of the overland immigrants; and by its means many parties obtained first news of scattered members.
The man behind the bar looked vaguely familiar to me, but I could not place him.
“Where’s the proprietor of this place?” I asked him.
He indicated a short, blowsy, truculent-looking individual who was, at the moment, staring out the window.
“There used to be an Italian─” I began.
The barkeeper uttered a short barking laugh as he turned to attend to a customer.
“He found the climate bad for his heart–and sold out!” said he.
On the wall opposite was posted a number of printed and written handbills. We stopped idly to examine them. They had in general to do with lost property, stolen horses, and rewards for the apprehension of various individuals. One struck us in particular. It was issued by a citizens’ committee of San Francisco, and announced a general reward for the capture of any member of the “Hounds.”
“Looks as if they’d got tired of that gang down there,” Johnny observed. “They were ruling the roost when we left. Do you know, I saw one of those fellows this afternoon–perhaps you remember him–a man with a queer sort of blue scar over one cheekbone. I swear I saw him in San Francisco. There’s our chance to make some money, Jim.”
The proprietor of the hotel turned to look at Johnny curiously, and several of the loafers drinking at the bar glanced in the direction of his clear young voice. We went on reading and enjoying the notices, some of which were very quaint. Suddenly the door burst open to admit a big man followed closely by a motley rabble. The leader was a red-faced, burly, whiskered individual, with a red beard and matted hair. As he turned I saw a star-shaped blue scar above his cheekbone.
“Where’s the ─ ─ ─ that is going to make some money out of arresting me?” he roared, swinging his huge form ostentatiously toward the centre of the room.
I confessed I was aghast, and completely at a loss. A row was evidently unavoidable, and the odds were against us. Almost at the instant the door came open, Johnny, without waiting for hostile demonstration, jerked his Colt’s revolvers from their holsters. With one bound he reached the centre of the room, and thrust the muzzles beneath the bully’s nose. His black eyes were snapping.
“Shut up, you hound!” he said in a low, even voice. “I wouldn’t condescend to make money out of your miserable carcass, except at a glue factory. And if you or your friends so much as wink an eyelid, I’ll put you in shape for it.”
Caught absolutely by surprise, the “Hound” stared fascinated into the pistol barrels, his jaw dropped, his face redder than ever, his eyes ridiculously protruding. I had recovered my wits and had backed against the bulletin board, a revolver in either hand, keeping an eye on the general company. Those who had burst in with the bully had stopped frozen in their tracks. The others were interested, but not particularly excited.
“I’m going to stay in this camp,” Johnny advised crisply, “and I’m not going to be bothered by big bluffs like you. I warn you, and all like you, to let me alone and keep away from me. You stay in camp, or you can leave camp, just as you please, but I warn you that I shoot you next time I lay eyes on you. Now, about face! March!”
Johnny’s voice had an edge of steel. The big man obeyed orders implicitly. He turned slowly, and sneaked out the door. His followers shambled toward the bar. Johnny passed them rather contemptuously under the review of his snapping eyes, and they shambled a trifle faster. Then, with elaborate nonchalance, we sauntered out.
“My Lord, Johnny!” I cried when we had reached the street, “that was fine! I didn’t know you had it in you!”
“Damn the luck!” he cried, kicking a tin can. “Oh, damn!”
He muttered to himself a moment, then turned to me with humorous despair.
“What a stupid, useless mess!” he cried. “The minute that fellow came into the room I saw we were let in for a row; so I went at it quick before he had got organized. He didn’t expect that. He thought he’d have to work us into it.”
“It certainly got him,” said I.
“But it just starts us all wrong here,” complained Johnny. “We are marked men.”
“We’ll just have to look out for him a little. I don’t believe he’s really dangerous. He looks to me a lot like a bluffer.”
“Oh, him!” said Johnny contemputously, “he doesn’t worry me any. It’s all the rest
of them. I’ve practically challenged all the hard cases in camp, don’t you see? I’m no longer an inconspicuous newcomer. Every tough character with any real nerve will want to tackle me now, just to try me out.”
From the impulsive and unanalytical Johnny this was surprising enough, and my face must have showed it.
“I’ve seen it worked out in my part of the country,” he explained sombrely. “I don’t want to bother with that sort of thing. I’m a peaceable citizen. Now I’ve got to walk around on tiptoe all the time watching for trouble. Oh, damn!”
“If you’re afraid─” I began.
“I’m not afraid,” said Johnny so simply that I believed him at once. “But I’m annoyed. And of course you recognized that barkeeper.”
“I thought I’d seen him before, but I don’t remember just where.”
“He’s one of those fellows we fired out of our canoe down at Chagres. You can bet he doesn’t love us any!”
“You move along to Porcupine to-morrow,” I suggested. “I can look after Yank all right. They won’t bother me.”
Johnny walked for some steps in silence.
“No, they won’t bother you,” he repeated slowly.
He thought for a moment, then he threw back his head. “But look here, Jim,” he said briskly, “you forget. I told that fellow and his friends that I was going to live in this place. I can’t leave now.”
“Nonsense,” said I. “What do you care for that gang?”
“It would look like running away. No, I certainly don’t intend to leave now.”
*
CHAPTER XXIX
THE CHALLENGE
We went out to see Yank, with the full intention of spending the evening and cheering him up. He was dozing, restless, waking and sleeping by fits and starts. We sat around in the awkward fashion peculiar to very young boys in the sickroom; and then, to our vast relief, were shoved out by Señora Moreña. With her we held a whispered conversation outside, and completed satisfactory arrangements for Yank’s keep. She was a chuckling, easy-going, motherly sort of creature, and we were very lucky to have her. Then we returned in the gathering dusk to our camp under the trees across the way.
A man rose from a seat against a tree trunk.
“Good evenin’, stranger,” said he.
“Good evening,” responded Johnny guardedly.
“You are the man who stuck up Scar-face Charley in Morton’s place, ain’t you?”
“What’s that to you?” replied Johnny. “Are you a friend of his?”
His habitual air of young carelessness had fallen from him; his eye was steady and frosty, his face set in stern lines. Before my wondering eyes he had grown ten years older in the last six hours. The other was lounging toward us–a short, slight man, with flaxen moustache and eyebrows, a colourless face, pale blue eyes, and a bald forehead from which the hat had been pushed back. He was chewing a straw.
“Well, I was just inquirin’ in a friendly sort of way,” replied the newcomer peaceably.
“I don’t know you,” stated Johnny shortly, “nor who you’re friends to, nor your camp. I deny your right to ask questions. Good night.”
“Well, good night,” agreed the other, still peaceable. “I reckon I gather considerable about you, anyhow.” He turned away. “I had a notion from what I heard that you was sort of picked on, and I dropped round, sort of friendly like; but Lord love you! I don’t care how many of you desperadoes kill each other. Go to it, and good riddance!” He cast his pale blue eyes on Johnny’s rigid figure. “Also, go to hell!” he remarked dispassionately.
Johnny stared at him puzzled.
“Hold on!” he called, after a moment. “Then you’re not a friend of this Hound?”
The stranger turned in slow surprise.
“Me? What are you talking about?” He looked from one to the other of us, then returned the few steps he had taken. “I believe you don’t know me. I’m Randall, Danny Randall.”
“Yes?” puzzled Johnny.
“Of Sonoma,” added Randall.
“I suppose I should know you, but I’m afraid I don’t,” confessed Johnny.
Randall turned back to the tree beneath which lay our effects.
“I believe I’ll just have a cup of coffee with you boys,” said he.
We blew up the fire, scoured the frying pan, made ourselves food. Randall brought a pail of water. We all ate together, without much conversation; then lit our pipes and piled on dry wood to make a brighter friendship fire.
“Now, boys,” said Randall, “I’m going to ask you some questions; and you can answer me or not, just as you please. Only I’ll say, it isn’t just curiosity.”
Johnny, who was studying him covertly from beneath the shadow of his hat, nodded briefly, but said nothing.
“How long have you been in the mines?”
“Since March.”
“Since March!” echoed Randall, as though a little bewildered at this reply. “Yet you never heard─What camp?”
Johnny studied a while.
“Hangman’s Gulch for six weeks,” said he. “Then just prospecting.”
“Where?”
“I don’t believe I’ll answer that question,” replied Johnny slowly.
“But somewhere back in the hills?” persisted Randall.
“Somewhere back in the hills,” agreed Johnny.
“Seems to me─” I broke in, but Johnny silenced me with a gesture. He was watching Randall intently, and thinking hard.
“Then you have been out of it for three months or so. That explains it. Now I don’t mind telling you I came up here this evening to size you up. I heard about your row with Scar-face Charley, and I wanted to see whether you were just another fighting desperado or an honest man. Well, I’m satisfied. I’m not going to ask you if you have much gold with you, for you wouldn’t tell me; but if you have, keep it with you. If you don’t, you’ll lose it. Keep in the middle of the road, and out of dark places. This is a tough camp; but there are a lot of us good men, too, and my business is to get us all to know each other. Things are getting bad, and we’ve got to get together. That’s why I came up to see you. Are you handy with a gun?” he asked abruptly.
“Fair,” said Johnny.
“You need to be. Let’s see if you are. Stand up. Try to get the draw on me. Now!”
Johnny reached for his pistol, but before his hand was fairly on the butt, Randall had thrust the muzzle of a small revolver beneath his nose. His pale blue eyes had lit with concentration, his bleached eyebrows were drawn together. For an instant the thought flashed across my mind that this was a genuine hold-up; and I am sure Johnny caught the same suspicion, for his figure stiffened. Then Randall dropped his hand.
“Very pretty,” said Johnny coolly. “How did you do that? I didn’t catch your motion.”
“From the sleeve,” said Randall. “It’s difficult, but it’s pretty, as you say; and if you learn to draw from the sleeve, I’ll guarantee you’ll get the draw on your man every time.”
“Show me,” said Johnny simply.
“That gun of yours is too big; it’s a holster weapon. Here, take this.”
He handed Johnny a beautifully balanced small Colt’s revolver, engraved, silver-plated, with polished rosewood handles. This he showed Johnny how to stow away in the sleeve, how to arrange it, how to grasp it, and the exact motion in snatching it away.
“It takes practice, lots of it, and then more of it,” said Randall. “It’s worse than useless unless you get it just right. If you made a mistake at the wrong time, the other man would get you sure.”
“Where can I get one of these?” asked Johnny.
“Good!” Randall approved his decision. “You see the necessity. You can’t. But a derringer is about as good, and Jones has them for sale. Now as for your holster gun: the whole trick of quick drawing is to throw your right shoulder forward and drag the gun from the holster with one forward sweep. Don’t lift it up and out. This way!” He snapped his hand past h
is hip and brought it away armed.
“Pretty,” repeated Johnny.
“Don’t waste much powder and ball shooting at a mark,” advised Randall. “It looks nice to cut out the ace of hearts at ten yards, but it doesn’t mean much. If you can shoot at all, you can shoot straight enough to hit a man at close range. Practise the draw.” He turned to me. “You’d better practise, too. Every man’s got to take care of himself these days. But you’re not due for trouble same as your friend is.”
“I’m obliged to you,” said Johnny.
“You are not. Now it’s up to you. I judged you didn’t know conditions here, and I thought it only right to warn you. There’s lots of good fellows in this camp; and some of the hard cases are a pretty good sort. Just keep organized, that’s all.”
“Now I wonder who Danny Randall is!” speculated Johnny after our visitor had departed. “He talked as though we ought to know all about it. I’m going to find out the first fellow I get acquainted with.”
Next morning we asked the Moreñas who was Danny Randall.
“El diabolo,” replied Moreña shortly; and trudged obstinately away to his work without vouchsafing further information.
“Which is interesting, but indefinite,” said Johnny.
We found Yank easier in body, and embarked on the sea of patience in which he was to float becalmed until his time was up. In reply to his inquiries as to our plans, we told him we were resting a few days, which was the truth. Then we went up to town and made two purchases; a small tent, and a derringer pistol. They cost us three hundred and fifty dollars. It was the quiet time of day; the miners had gone to work, and most of the gentlemen of leisure were not yet about. Nevertheless a dozen or so sat against the walls, smoking paper cigarettos. They all looked at us curiously; and several nodded at Johnny in a brief, tentative sort of fashion.
The rest of the day, and of several days following, we spent in putting up our tent, ditching it, arranging our cooking affairs, building rough seats, and generally making ourselves comfortable. We stretched these things to cover as long a space of time as possible, for we secretly dreaded facing the resumption of the old grind, and postponed it as long as we could. A good deal of the time we spent at Yank’s bedside, generally sitting silent and constrained, to the mutual discomfort of all three of us, I am sure. At odd intervals we practised conscientiously and solemnly at the “draw.” We would stand facing each other, the nipples of our revolvers uncapped, and would, at the given word, see who could cover the other first. We took turns at giving the word. At first we were not far apart; but Johnny quickly passed me in skill. I am always somewhat clumsy, but my friend was naturally quick and keen at all games of skill or dexterity. He was the sort of man who could bowl, or play pool, or billiards, or anything else rather better than the average accustomed player the first time he tried. He turned card tricks deftly. At the end of our three days’ loafing he caught me at the end of his pistol so regularly that there ceased to be any contest in it. I never did get the sleeve trick; but then, I never succeeded in fooling the merest infant with any of my attempts at legerdemain. Johnny could flip that little derringer out with a twist of his supple wrist as neatly as a snake darts its forked tongue. For ten minutes at a time he practised it, over and over, as regularly as well-oiled machinery.
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