by Zane Grey
‘I’ll go in now. And maybe I am tired after all. It has been a day, hasn’t it? And please know that I felt that you did the right thing to-night, and that I don’t know another man who would have been man enough to do it. Good night.’
‘Good night,’ he said, and watched her as she went into the house.
CHAPTER XIX
Sanchia Persistent
Thus, upon the barren flanks of Dry Gulch, a town was born. Mothered by the stubborn desert that appears sterile and is not, it was a sprawling, ungainly, ill-begotten thing. In the night it came; in the dawn it grew; during the first day it assumed lustiness and an insolence that was its birthright. And, like any welcome child, there was a name awaiting it. Men laughed as the unceremonious christening was performed. A half-drunken vagabond from no one knew where had staked out his claim and drained his bottle. ‘Here’s lookin’ at Sanchia’s Town!’ he cried out, and smashed his bottle against a rock.
It appeared that every one had heard the tale of Longstreet’s discovery and of Sanchia Murray’s manoeuvre. They made high fun of Longstreet and declared that Sanchia was a cool one. The mere fact that she was a woman enlisted their sympathies in an affair wherein they had no interest. They were doomed to second choice and deemed it as well for Sanchia to have had first as any one. When a narrow-headed individual remarked that he had heard that the widow was getting nothing out of it, but that Courtot and his crowd had cheated her, they hooted and jeered at him until he withdrew wondering at their insane attitude. It was generally taken for granted that Sanchia Murray knew what she was about. If she chose to hunt in couple with Jim Courtot, that was her business.
A town is something more than a group of men encamped. It connotes many social facilities; first among which comes the store and, in certain parts of the world, the saloon. Sanchia’s Town was, upon the first day, a town in these essentials. Shortly after dawn a string of three six-horse teams crawled across the lowlands and, by a circuitous way, to the camp. One wagon was heaped with bits of second-hand lumber and a jumbled assortment of old tents and strips of canvas. In it, also, were hammers, saws and nails. The two other wagons were filled with boxes and bags—and kegs. There were two men to each team. Arrived they gave immediate evidence that their employer had chosen well. One of them, a crooked-eyed carpenter named Emberlee, directed, hammer in hand. Before noon he had caused to grow up an architectural monstrosity, hideous but sturdy. It was without floor, but it had walls; wide gaps were doors and windows, but there was a canvas roof.
While his five companions brought their parcels into the place, Emberlee climbed aloft and nailed up a big board upon which his own hand, as the wagon had jostled along, had painted a sign. It spelled: JIM COURTOT’S HOUSE. Then he descended and began a hurried grouping of certain articles upon shelves and in corners. By the time the camp was ready for a noon meal the word had flown about that at Jim Courtot’s House one could get food, water and a widely-known substitute for whisky. Meantime Tony Moraga had come: he stood behind a bar hastily made of two planks set on packing cases and sold a tin cup of water for twenty-five cents, a glass of liquor for fifty. There were calls for both. Emberlee, plainly a jack-of-all-trades, began displaying his wares. He offered dried meats, tinned goods, crackers, cheese and other comestibles at several times desert prices. And he, too, chinked many a silver dollar and minted gold piece into his cash-box, because when men rush to gold diggings they are not likely to go empty-handed. Shortly after noon the three wagons returned to Big Run for more supplies.
Obviously, though already Jim Courtot had departed from Dry Gulch when Alan Howard came upon his agents, he was no less active than they with rich gains in sight. It is to be doubted if the man slept at all during the first three days and nights. He had made his own list of foods and tobaccos and alcohols; he had selected men for his work. Down in San Juan men said: ‘Jim Courtot is playing his luck again.’ For though information was garbled long before it reached the mission town, yet always it was understood that Jim Courtot was playing to win heavily—he and Sanchia Murray.
Those hours which, in Sanchia’s Town, had been given over to frenzy and the fury of feverish endeavour, had dragged by wearily and anxiously for the inmates of Longstreet’s half-mile-distant cabin. For both Monte Devine and Ed True the night was one of bitter rage and pain. Longstreet was gentle with them, bringing them water, asking them often of their wants; Helen ministered to them silently, a strange new look in her eyes. Often she went to the door and stood looking off into the moonlit night, across the rolling hills and down into the wide sweep of Desert Valley. Carr remained with them all night. It was as well to be on hand, he suggested, if anything happened. He seemed scarcely conscious of the presence of the two wounded men; tilted back in his chair, smoking one cigar after another, he scarcely for an instant lost sight of Helen.
In the morning early there was the sound of hoofs and then men’s voices. It was Carr who went to the door.
‘It is Bettins and a couple of other men,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Come for Devine and True, I guess.’ And still without turning, he demanded, ‘Ready to go, Monte?’
‘Damn right,’ said Monte.
Between Carr and Longstreet, Monte shambled to the door. Here he was turned over to his friends, who got him into his saddle. Then, assisted as Monte had been, and cursing at every step, Ed True passed through the door. The men outside accepted the two wounded men with only a few low words; in another moment the five horses were carrying their riders slowly toward Sanchia’s Town. Carr returning saw the whisk of Helen’s skirt as she disappeared within the little room partitioned off at the rear and knew that she had gone to fling herself down upon her bed. He looked after her as though he still half hoped she were coming back if only to say a belated ‘good night.’ Then he and Longstreet made coffee and drank it perfunctorily. After breakfast Carr left, saying that he would ride over to have a look at the new camp, and would drop in again some time during the afternoon.
‘If I am not making a nuisance of myself,’ he said as Longstreet followed him to the door, ‘I should like to see what I can of you during the next few days. And of Miss Helen,’ he added with utter frankness and clear meaning. ‘I have business which will call me back East before long.’
‘Come as often as you can, my dear fellow,’ invited Longstreet. But his eyes had wandered toward the mining site which should have been his, and his mind seemed to be less than half busied with Carr’s words. Carr, turning in the saddle, narrowed his eyes upon the university man’s face and, thinking that he had caught his thought, said bluntly:
‘It’s an infernal shame. It’s all yours by right, and——’
‘Oh,’ cried Longstreet grandly, ‘I’m not worrying about a little diggings like that! Let them have it! Next time I’ll show them a real mine.’
‘Well, I wish you luck,’ rejoined Carr. But there was no great conviction in his tone, since in his mind there was little expectation that lightning was going to strike twice in the same place. However, the caution came to his lips involuntarily: ‘If there is a next time, I’d be mighty careful whom I told about it. It will pay you to look out for that Murray woman.’
Longstreet’s face was puzzled and troubled.
‘It does begin to look as though she gave me the—the double cross, doesn’t it?’ he said as though he were afraid he must believe the worst of Sanchia Murray despite his wish in the matter.
‘It certainly does,’ grunted Carr. ‘She’s absolutely no good. Everybody knows it. Fight shy of her. Well, so long.’
‘So long,’ repeated Longstreet absently.
Carr rode away. Longstreet’s eyes, following the galloping horse, were still puzzled. ‘I’m learning a thing or two,’ he told himself soberly as he went back into the cabin. Many times he nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘I’ve lived too long in another sort of world; now I am coming to grips
with real life, real men and women. There’s a new set of rules to grasp. Well,’ and he straightened his thin body and a flickering smile played over his lips, ‘I can learn. As Barbee says of stud poker: “You’ve got to set tight and keep your trap shut and your eye peeled.”’
Helen slept soundly all morning. Longstreet dozed, studied the maps he had made during the last week and pottered. At noon they lunched together, neither having a great deal to say. Helen regarded her father more than ever as a baby who ought to be scolded and lessoned; still, like any doting mother, she found excuses for him and told herself that he had been amply punished for his indiscretion. She, too, opined that he had learned a lesson. Consequently she coddled him to such an extent that Longstreet remarked the fact and began to wonder just what Helen wanted now; no doubt she was going to ask something of him and was preparing the way after the approved and time-honoured custom.
But the day wore on with never a favour asked. In the drowsy afternoon Helen coaxed her father into her room and dropped the shades and ordered him to sleep, telling him that he looked like a ghost of his former rugged beauty. Then she sank down listlessly upon the doorstep, brooding, her eyes wandering through the green fields of Desert Valley. Her musings were disturbed by the clatter of shod hoofs across the rugged plateau; she looked up quickly, her eyes brightening. Then she saw that it was John Carr returning, and into her look there came an expression much resembling that which had been so much to-day in her father’s—one of uncertainty.
Carr staked out his horse before he came to her. Then he sat down on a box near the doorstep and studied her gravely before he spoke. Helen smiled.
‘You are thinking unpleasant things about some one,’ she stated quickly. ‘Has the world turned into a terribly serious place all of a sudden?’
There was little levity in Carr’s make-up at any time; just now his speech was as sober as his look.
‘I am thinking about you and your father, to begin with,’ he replied gravely. ‘I have been over yonder all day.’ He swept out an impatient arm toward Dry Gulch. ‘They call it Sanchia’s Town. And it is a town already. I saw Nate Kemble there; he’s the big man of the Quigley Mines, and you see how long it has taken him to get on the spot. Your father evidently made no mistake in his location. There’s gold there, all right!’
Helen waited expectantly for him to go on. For certainly the fact that her father had been able to find gold was no cause for Carr’s frowning eyes.
‘My blood has been boiling all day,’ Carr blurted out angrily. ‘Longstreet should be a rich man to-day and he has gained nothing. I saw Nate Kemble pay one man ten thousand dollars for his claim; Kemble wouldn’t pay that if the thing were not worth a great deal more. Kemble doesn’t make many mistakes. Your father stumbled on to the place and then he couldn’t hold it. When do you think he will make another discovery? And, if his lucky star should lead him aright again, is he the man to cash in on his luck? Don’t you see, Helen, that James Edward Longstreet in this man’s land is a fish out of water?’
‘I understand what you mean,’ Helen nodded slowly. Again her look wandered through the fields stretching out far below. ‘And you are right. I didn’t want papa to come in the first place; now, as you say, he is only wasting time.’ She smiled a little tenderly. ‘He is just a dear old babe in the woods,’ she concluded softly.
Carr’s approval of her mounted swiftly to admiration. They lowered their voices and spoke at length of the professor and of what should be done for him. They agreed perfectly that, while he was an unusually fine technical man and an able instructor in matters of geological theorizing, he was not the man to wander with a prospector’s pick across these rugged lands.
‘Even grant the extremely unlikely,’ concluded Carr hastily as they heard the subject of their discussion moving about in the cabin, ‘and admit that he may chance upon a second strike. What then? Why, Sanchia and Devine and Courtot and a crowd of hangers-on have their eyes on him. They’d oust him again with not the shadow of a doubt or a second’s hesitation.’
Helen nodded and they went in together.
Carr stayed on to supper. Longstreet looked rested from his nap, bright and eager and as usual interested in everything in the world. Carr had bought a new hat yesterday; Longstreet tried it on and approved of it extravagantly. He asked what it cost and jingled his few coins, admitting ruefully that he’d have to wait until he uncovered his ‘real mine.’ Just the same, he proclaimed brightly, clothes did help make the man, and inside a year when he was decked out entirely to his own liking and a tenderfoot saw him, there would be no suspecting that Longstreet was not a Westerner born and bred. He put the hat away and sat down with them at the table. As he mentioned in such a matter-of-fact way his intention of tarrying a year, Carr and Helen glanced at each other significantly. And Carr after his direct fashion opened his campaign.
‘There are other things than gold mines, and you were not made for this country,’ he said. ‘What would you say to going back East if I showed you the chance there to clean up more money than you’ll ever see out here? I have been thinking about you, and I know the place where you’ll fit in.’
This was all news to Helen, and her look showed her eager interest. Longstreet smiled and shook his head.
‘That’s kind of you,’ he said warmly. ‘But I like it out here.’
‘But, papa,’ cried Helen, ‘surely you should hear Mr. Carr’s proposition! It is not merely kind of him; it is wonderful if he can help us that way, and it is wise.’
‘No,’ said Longstreet. ‘Carr won’t think me ungrateful. I told them in the East that there was nothing simpler than the fact that a man like me, knowing what I know, can discover gold in vast quantities. First, it is universally conceded that the auriferous deposits remaining untouched are vastly in excess of those already found and worked. Second, all of my life I have made a profound study of geognosy and geotectonic geology. Now, it is not only the money; money I count as a rather questionable gift, anyway. But it is my own reputation. What I have said I could do, I will do.’ And though his words came with his engaging smile, he seemed as firmly set in his determination as a rock hardened in cement.
Helen, who knew her father, sighed and turned from him to Carr. Then her eyes wandered through the open door, across the flat lands and down to the distant hills of Desert Valley.
‘I should not speak as I am going to speak,’ Carr was saying, ‘if matters were not exactly as they are. To begin with, I take it that I have been accepted as a friend. Hence you will forgive me if I appear to presume and will know that I have no love of interfering in another man’s personal affairs. Then, I must say what I have to say now: in a few days I am leaving you. I’ve got to go to New York.’
‘Oh,’ said Helen. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You are kind to me,’ he acknowledged gravely. ‘And I am sorry to go. Unless you and your father will consent to come also. Now, I am going to have my say—and, Mr. Longstreet, I hope you will forgive me if I am assuming a privilege which is not mine. I take it that you have no great amount of ready cash. Further, that your income has been that of most college men, who are all underpaid—say, three or four or five thousand a year. I have talked with Nate Kemble about you. His concern is a tremendously big affair with head offices in New York. Kemble is a friend of mine: I own stock in his company: he will acknowledge, quite as I am prepared to acknowledge, that there is a place for an expert of your type in the company. And the place will pay you, from the jump, ten thousand dollars.’
Helen fairly gasped. Despite her father’s talk of the extravagant sums he meant to wrest from the bowels of the earth, she had never dreamed of so princely an income for them. Longstreet, however, merely shook a smiling head.
‘You’re a real friend, John,’ he said. ‘But here we stick. And, when you come down to dollars and cents, I’ll eat your new hat for you if I ca
n’t make ten times your ten thousand in the first year.’
Before such amazing confidence Carr stalled. But he did not give up; it wasn’t his habit of thought to relinquish anything which he had undertaken. Still for a little he was silent, studying his man. Again Helen was staring out through the open door.
‘Some one is coming,’ she announced. Then, her tone quickening, ‘It is Mr. Howard; I knew he would be riding over before night. I know his horse,’ she explained hastily, flushing a trifle under Carr’s eyes which told her that he was surprised that she could tell who it was at such a distance. ‘It is the horse he rode the first time we ever saw him. There is some one with him. It looks like——’
She did not say whom it looked like. Carr and Longstreet looked out. The second rider was a woman; her horse was not Sanchia Murray’s white mare, but none the less they all knew that with Alan Howard came Sanchia. Carr’s heavy brows gathered blackly. The flush died out of Helen’s face and her lips tightened. Longstreet sprang up and went to the door.
‘If it is Mrs. Murray,’ he called back, something like triumph in his excited voice, ‘and if she is coming here—why, then maybe there was a mistake after all.’
‘She is not coming here!’ cried Helen hotly. ‘Papa, I will not have that woman in the house. After the way she has cheated you, fooled you, lied to you——’
‘Come, come, my dear,’ chided Longstreet. ‘No one must be judged and condemned unheard. And remember that she is coming with Mr. Howard.’
Helen looked hopelessly at Carr. There were times when she utterly despaired of her father. But she could find comfort in the thought that if that Sanchia woman sought to perpetrate any more of her villainy and deceit, she was going to stand at her father’s side through all of it. Meantime the two riders came on swiftly. As they drew up at the door Helen saw that Howard looked worried and ill at ease and that Sanchia Murray’s eyes were red as though with copious weeping. Whereas Helen sniffed audibly.