The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Kells had lifted a plank of the floor, and was now in the act of putting small buckskin sacks of gold into his pockets. They made his coat bulge at the sides.

  “Joan, stick some meat and biscuits in your pockets,” he said. “I’d never get hungry with my pockets full of gold. But you might.”

  Joan rummaged around in Bate Wood’s rude cupboard.

  “These biscuits are as heavy as gold—and harder,” she said.

  Kells flashed a glance at her that held pride, admiration, and sadness. “You are the gamest girl I ever knew! I wish I’d—But that’s too late!… Joan, if anything happens to me stick close to Cleve. I believe you can trust him. Come on now.”

  Then he strode out of the cabin. Joan had almost to run to keep up with him. There were no other men now in sight. She knew that Jim would follow soon, because his gold-dust was hidden in the cavern back of her room, and he would not need much time to get it. Nevertheless, she anxiously looked back. She and Kells had gone perhaps a couple of hundred yards before Jim appeared, and then he came on the run. At a point about opposite the first tents he joined Kells.

  “Jim, how about guns?” asked the bandit.

  “I’ve got two,” replied Cleve.

  “Good! There’s no telling—Jim, I’m afraid of the gang. They’re crazy. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a hard proposition.”

  “We’ll get away, all right. Don’t worry about that. But the gang will never come together again.” This singular man spoke with melancholy. “Slow up a little now,” he added. “We don’t want to attract attention.… But where is there anyone to see us?… Jim, did I have you figured right about the Creede job?”

  “You sure did. I just lost my nerve.”

  “Well, no matter.”

  Then Kells appeared to forget that. He stalked on with keen glances searching everywhere, until suddenly, when he saw round a bend of the road, he halted with grating teeth. That road was empty all the way to the other end of camp, but there surged a dark mob of men. Kells stalked forward again. The Last Nugget appeared like an empty barn. How vacant and significant the whole center of camp! Kells did not speak another word.

  Joan hurried on between Kells and Cleve. She was trying to fortify herself to meet what lay at the end of the road. A strange, hoarse roar of men and an upflinging of arms made her shudder. She kept her eyes lowered and clung to the arms of her companions.

  Finally they halted. She felt the crowd before she saw it. A motley assemblage with what seemed craned necks and intent backs! They were all looking forward and upward. But she forced her glance down.

  Kells stood still. Jim’s grip was hard upon her arm. Presently men grouped round Kells. She heard whispers. They began to walk slowly, and she was pushed and led along. More men joined the group. Soon she and Kells and Jim were hemmed in a circle. Then she saw the huge form of Gulden, the towering Oliver, and Smith and Blicky, Beard, Jones, Williams, Budd, and others. The circle they formed appeared to be only one of many groups, all moving, whispering, facing from her. Suddenly a sound like the roar of a wave agitated that mass of men. It was harsh, piercing, unnatural, yet it had a note of wild exultation. Then came the stamp and surge, and then the upflinging of arms, and then the abrupt strange silence, broken only by a hiss or an escaping breath, like a sob. Beyond all Joan’s power to resist was a deep, primitive desire to look.

  There over the heads of the mob—from the bench of the slope—rose grotesque structures of new-hewn lumber. On a platform stood black, motionless men in awful contrast with a dangling object that doubled up and curled upon itself in terrible convulsions. It lengthened while it swayed; it slowed its action while it stretched. It took on the form of a man. He swung by a rope round his neck. His head hung back. His hands beat. A long tremor shook the body; then it was still, and swayed to and fro, a dark, limp thing.

  Joan’s gaze was riveted in horror. A dim, red haze made her vision imperfect. There was a sickening riot within her.

  There were masked men all around the platform—a solid phalanx of them on the slope above. They were heavily armed. Other masked men stood on the platform. They seemed rigid figures—stiff, jerky when they moved. How different from the two forms swaying below!

  The structure was a rude scaffold and the vigilantes had already hanged two bandits.

  Two others with hands bound behind their backs stood farther along the platform under guard. Before each dangled a noose.

  Joan recognized Texas and Frenchy. And on the instant the great crowd let out a hard breath that ended in silence.

  The masked leader of the vigilantes was addressing Texas: “We’ll spare your life if you confess. Who’s the head of this Border Legion?”

  “Shore it’s Red Pearce!… Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  “We’ll give you one more chance,” came the curt reply.

  Texas appeared to become serious and somber. “I swear to God it’s Pearce!” he declared.

  “A lie won’t save you. Come, the truth! We think we know, but we want proof! Hurry!”

  “You can go where it’s hot!” responded Texas.

  The leader moved his hand and two other masked men stepped forward.

  “Have you any message to send anyone—anything to say?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you any request to make?”

  “Hang that Frenchman before me! I want to see him kick.”

  Nothing more was said. The two men adjusted the noose round the doomed man’s neck. Texas refused the black cap. And he did not wait for the drop to be sprung. He walked off the platform into space as Joan closed her eyes.

  Again that strange, full, angry, and unnatural roar waved through the throng of watchers. It was terrible to hear. Joan felt the violent action of that crowd, although the men close round her were immovable as stones. She imagined she could never open her eyes to see Texas hanging there. Yet she did—and something about his form told her that he had died instantly. He had been brave and loyal even in dishonor. He had more than once spoken a kind word to her. Who could tell what had made him an outcast? She breathed a prayer for his soul.

  The vigilantes were bolstering up the craven Frenchy. He could not stand alone. They put the rope round his neck and lifted him off the platform—then let him down. He screamed in his terror. They cut short his cries by lifting him again. This time they held him up several seconds. His face turned black. His eyes bulged. His breast heaved. His legs worked with the regularity of a jumping-jack. They let him down and loosened the noose. They were merely torturing him to wring a confession from him. He had been choked severely and needed a moment to recover. When he did it was to shrink back in abject terror from that loop of rope dangling before his eyes.

  The vigilante leader shook the noose in his face and pointed to the swaying forms of the dead bandits.

  Frenchy frothed at the mouth as he shrieked out words in his native tongue, but any miner there could have translated their meaning.

  The crowd heaved forward, as if with one step, then stood in a strained silence.

  “Talk English!” ordered the vigilante.

  “I’ll tell! I’ll tell!”

  Joan became aware of a singular tremor in Kells’s arm, which she still clasped. Suddenly it jerked. She caught a gleam of blue. Then the bellow of a gun almost split her ears. Powder burned her cheek. She saw Frenchy double up and collapse on the platform.

  For an instant there was a silence in which every man seemed petrified. Then burst forth a hoarse uproar and the stamp of many boots. All in another instant pandemonium broke out. The huge crowd split in every direction. Joan felt Cleve’s strong arm around her—felt herself borne on a resistless tide of yelling, stamping, wrestling men. She had a glimpse of Kells’s dark face drawing away from her; another of Gulden’s giant form in Herculean action, tossing men aside like ninepins; another of weapons aloft. Savage, wild-eyed men fought to get into the circle whence that shot had come. They broke into
it, but did not know then whom to attack or what to do. And the rushing of the frenzied miners all around soon disintegrated Kells’s band and bore its several groups in every direction. There was not another shot fired.

  Joan was dragged and crushed in the melee. Not for rods did her feet touch the ground. But in the clouds of dust and confusion of struggling forms she knew Jim still held her, and she clasped him with all her strength. Presently her feet touched the earth; she was not jostled and pressed; then she felt free to walk; and with Jim urging her they climbed a rock-strewn slope till a cabin impeded further progress. But they had escaped the stream.

  Below was a strange sight. A scaffold shrouded in dust-clouds; a band of bewildered vigilantes with weapons drawn, waiting for they knew not what; three swinging, ghastly forms and a dead man on the platform; and all below, a horde of men trying to escape from one another. That shot of Kells’s had precipitated a rush. No miner knew who the vigilantes were nor the members of the Border Legion. Every man there expected a bloody battle—distrusted the man next to him—and had given way to panic. The vigilantes had tried to crowd together for defense and all the others had tried to escape. It was a wild scene, born of wild justice and blood at fever-heat, the climax of a disordered time where gold and violence reigned supreme. It could only happen once, but it was terrible while it lasted. It showed the craven in men; it proved the baneful influence of gold; it brought, in its fruition, the destiny of Alder Creek Camp. For it must have been that the really brave and honest men in vast majority retraced their steps while the vicious kept running. So it seemed to Joan.

  She huddled against Jim there in the shadow of the cabin wall, and not for long did either speak. They watched and listened. The streams of miners turned back toward the space around the scaffold where the vigilantes stood grouped, and there rose a subdued roar of excited voices. Many small groups of men conversed together, until the vigilante leader brought all to attention by addressing the populace in general. Joan could not hear what he said and had no wish to hear.

  “Joan, it all happened so quickly, didn’t it?” whispered Jim, shaking his head as if he was not convinced of reality.

  “Wasn’t he—terrible!” whispered Joan in reply.

  “He! Who?”

  “Kells.” In her mind the bandit leader dominated all that wild scene.

  “Terrible, if you like. But I’d say great!… The nerve of him! In the face of a hundred vigilantes and thousands of miners! But he knew what that shot would do!”

  “Never! He never thought of that,” declared Joan, earnestly. “I felt him tremble. I had a glimpse of his face.… Oh!… First in his mind was his downfall, and, second, the treachery of Frenchy. I think that shot showed Kells as utterly desperate, but weak. He couldn’t have helped it—if that had been the last bullet in his gun.”

  Jim Cleve looked strangely at Joan, as if her eloquence was both persuasive and incomprehensible.

  “Well, that was a lucky shot for us—and him, too.”

  “Do you think he got away?” she asked, eagerly.

  “Sure. They all got away. Wasn’t that about the maddest crowd you ever saw?”

  “No wonder. In a second every man there feared the man next to him would shoot. That showed the power of Kells’s Border Legion. If his men had been faithful and obedient he never would have fallen.”

  “Joan! You speak as if you regret it!”

  “Oh, I am ashamed,” replied Joan. “I don’t mean that. I don’t know what I do mean. But still I’m sorry for Kells. I suffered so much.… Those long, long hours of suspense.… And his fortunes seemed my fortunes—my very life—and yours, too, Jim.”

  “I think I understand, dear,” said Jim, soberly.

  “Jim, what’ll we do now? Isn’t it strange to feel free?”

  “I feel as queer as you. Let me think,” replied Jim.

  They huddled there in comparative seclusion for a long time after that. Joan tried to think of plans, but her mind seemed, unproductive. She felt half dazed. Jim, too, appeared to be laboring under the same kind of burden. Moreover, responsibility had been added to his.

  The afternoon waned till the sun tipped the high range in the west. The excitement of the mining populace gradually wore away, and toward sunset strings of men filed up the road and across the open. The masked vigilantes disappeared, and presently only a quiet and curious crowd was left round the grim scaffold and its dark swinging forms. Joan’s one glance showed that the vigilantes had swung Frenchy’s dead body in the noose he would have escaped by treachery. They had hanged him dead. What a horrible proof of the temper of these newborn vigilantes! They had left the bandits swinging. What sight was so appalling as these limp, dark, swaying forms? Dead men on the ground had a dignity—at least the dignity of death. And death sometimes had a majesty. But here both life and death had been robbed and there was only horror. Joan felt that all her life she would be haunted.

  “Joan, we’ve got to leave Alder Creek,” declared Cleve, finally. He rose to his feet. The words seemed to have given him decision. “At first I thought every bandit in the gang would run as far as he could from here. But—you can’t tell what these wild men will do. Gulden, for instance! Common sense ought to make them hide for a spell. Still, no matter what’s what, we must leave.… Now, how to go?”

  “Let’s walk. If we buy horses or wait for the stage we’ll have to see men here—and I’m afraid—”

  “But, Joan, there’ll be bandits along the road sure. And the trails, wherever they are, would be less safe.”

  “Let’s travel by night and rest by day.”

  “That won’t do, with so far to go and no pack.”

  “Then part of the way.”

  “No. We’d better take the stage for Bannack. If it starts at all it’ll be under armed guard. The only thing is—will it leave soon?… Come, Joan, we’ll go down into camp.”

  Dusk had fallen and lights had begun to accentuate the shadows. Joan kept close beside Jim, down the slope, and into the road. She felt like a guilty thing and every passing man or low-conversing group frightened her. Still she could not help but see that no one noticed her or Jim, and she began to gather courage. Jim also acquired confidence. The growing darkness seemed a protection. The farther up the street they passed, the more men they met. Again the saloons were in full blast. Alder Creek had returned to the free, careless tenor of its way. A few doors this side of the Last Nugget was the office of the stage and express company. It was a wide tent with the front canvas cut out and a shelf-counter across the opening. There was a dim, yellow lamplight. Half a dozen men lounged in front, and inside were several more, two of whom appeared to be armed guards. Jim addressed no one in particular.

  “When does the next stage leave for Bannack?”

  A man looked up sharply from the papers that littered a table before him. “It leaves when we start it,” he replied, curtly.

  “Well, when will that be?”

  “What’s that to you?” he replied, with a question still more curt.

  “I want to buy seats for two.”

  “That’s different. Come in and let’s look you over.… Hello! it’s young Cleve. I didn’t recognize you. Excuse me. We’re a little particular these days.”

  The man’s face lighted. Evidently he knew Jim and thought well of him. This reassured Joan and stilled the furious beating of her heart. She saw Jim hand over a sack of gold, from which the agent took the amount due for the passage. Then he returned the sack and whispered something in Jim’s ear. Jim rejoined her and led her away, pressing her arm close to his side.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered, excitedly. “Stage leaves just before daylight. It used to leave in the middle of the fore-noon. But they want a good start tomorrow.”

  “They think it might be held up?”

  “He didn’t say so. But there’s every reason to suspect that.… Joan, I sure hope it won’t. Me with all this gold. Why, I feel as if I weighed a thousand pounds.”
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br />   “What’ll we do now?” she inquired.

  Jim halted in the middle of the road. It was quite dark now. The lights of the camp were flaring; men were passing to and fro; the loose boards on the walks rattled to their tread; the saloons had begun to hum; and there was a discordant blast from the Last Nugget.

  “That’s it—what’ll we do?” he asked in perplexity.

  Joan had no idea to advance, but with the lessening of her fear and the gradual clearing of her mind she felt that she would not much longer be witless.

  “We’ve got to eat and get some rest,” said Jim, sensibly.

  “I’ll try to eat—but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” replied Joan.

  Jim took her to a place kept by a Mexican. It appeared to consist of two tents, with opening in front and door between. The table was a plank resting upon two barrels, and another plank, resting upon kegs, served as a seat. There was a smoking lamp that flickered. The Mexican’s tableware was of a crudeness befitting his house, but it was clean and he could cook—two facts that Joan appreciated after her long experience of Bate Wood. She and Jim were the only customers of the Mexican, who spoke English rather well and was friendly. Evidently it pleased him to see the meal enjoyed. Both the food and the friendliness had good effect upon Jim Cleve. He ceased to listen all the time and to glance furtively out at every footstep.

  “Joan, I guess it’ll turn out all right,” he said, clasping her hand as it rested upon the table. Suddenly he looked bright-eyed and shy. He leaned toward her. “Do you remember—we are married?” he whispered.

  Joan was startled. “Of course,” she replied hastily. But had she forgotten?

  “You’re my wife.”

  Joan looked at him and felt her nerves begin to tingle. A soft, warm wave stole over her.

  Like a boy he laughed. “This was our first meal together—on our honeymoon!”

  “Jim!” The blood burned in Joan’s face.

  “There you sit—you beautiful… But you’re not a girl now. You’re Dandy Dale.”

  “Don’t call me that!” exclaimed Joan.