Channing mingled with the crowds. He spoke a word or two into the ears of his friends. He asked casual questions. And he waited. He knew it meant the end of the camp for the time being. The Yellow Daisy had been the mine that had kept the town alive; all other enterprises were its offspring; all the prospecting excitement was based on its tremendous yield. As long as the Yellow Daisy glory hole was paying, men would come and search for and promote other glory holes whether they paid or not in the hope of duplicating its success. Now all development talk—all talk of big strikes and glowing prospects automatically ceased. It was the end. The miners knew it. The prospectors knew it. And more than anyone else, the promoters and hangers-on and parasites knew it. And they joined in a common orgy of talk and drink.
In the early afternoon Channing went up to the cabin occupied by Lillian Bell. He knew as soon as she admitted him that she had heard the news. But she did not appear excited. She had known boom camps before.
Channing’s look was part doubt, part curiosity, part admiration, as she welcomed him. There was no talk of the failure of the glory hole at first. Lillian asked about Hope and affairs at the ranch, and Channing told her what had happened.
Then: “Lillian, what are you going to do?” he asked casually.
“Oh, I’ll have to do a little thinking, I guess,” she replied lightly.
“This is going to be a wild night,” he said, “and probably Bandburg’s last one. You going out ahead of it?”
The girl shook her head. “No, I’ll stick to the joint till it shuts up shop. I’m always in at the death.”
They talked some more on general topics, and then Channing said: “Lillian, there’s liable to be another camp near here . . . a different kind of a camp. You want to keep in touch with me and remember, if you should want me for anything tonight . . . need me . . . I’ll be hanging around.” He rose to go, and at the door he turned and asked one question: “Has Brood bothered you? I know he’s up and circulating.”
“He’d have a chance to bother me . . . that fellow?” she exclaimed scornfully
Channing patted her on the arm as he left, and she watched him until he was indistinguishable in the crowds in the street below. Then she went in to dress for the evening.
With the coming of night the orgy swelled. The crowds of men became mobs. They fought and quarreled, split the reeking air with shouts and curses, settled old scores—spent what was left of their money. Channing stayed in the Bluebird resort—the largest of its kind in town. Here was the biggest, most boisterous and dangerous crowd, and scattered among the men were his friends. He kept an eye on Lillian Bell, who sang as usual. The celebration—if it could be called such—gradually grew until it assumed proportions that constituted a menace. A man—his money gone—demanded that the house buy a drink. He was refused pointblank with a sneer. It was the last night, and the proprietor knew it. No cause to coax future trade by acting as host.
“They’ve got all our money an’ they’re turning us down!” cried the man.
Then the trouble started in earnest. The attention of the maddened workers was directed from their own misfortune to the place that had taken their earnings. The place became an individual in their minds. The proprietor and his men were grafters! There was no law, and the camp was gone. The natural result was riot. The men surged behind the bar, and the proprietor and his assistants were too wise to use their guns. Bottles were confiscated, opened, and passed about. Glasses were hurled against the ceiling in frenzied glee, and the shattered glass rained down upon the heads of the mob. Mirrors were broken. Men pushed down into the cellar to loot it. There was no stopping them. The proprietor and his men, the gamblers and wheel operators and tinhorns, fled in terror for their lives, taking the money from the safe and leaving the place to the rioters.
Channing fought his way to Lillian Bell. The orchestra had fled, and she had taken refuge on a balcony. As he took her arm and led her down, for an instant he caught sight of Brood’s face, black with hatred, in the mob below. Channing fought his way through the milling crowd to the rear door, keeping the girl close to him. When they were in the open air, he spoke. “Hurry up to your place, Lillian. Keep off the street. Go around. Get what things you want to take with you together, and be ready to go. The piano and furnishings can be sent for afterward. Do as I say, and don’t open your door to anyone.”
The girl promised and slipped away in the darkness. Channing knew she could defend herself if necessary. He knew she carried a small, pearl-handled revolver and that she could shoot straight to the mark. He turned back into the Bluebird, surged into the crowds, on the alert for Brood.
Meanwhile the word of what was going on in the Bluebird spread, and the result was a concerted attack on every resort in the camp. In an hour the men were in charge of all the places and everything was free to those who could get it. The riot became a debauch, and the uproar was terrific as the mobs streamed from the wrecked and looted resorts into the street. Soon they were marching up and down the street. Scores staggered out of line and collapsed. The air was filled with flying debris. Only the strongest of the men could stand this pace and keep on their feet.
Then came a first reaction in the early hours of the morning. The marching gradually ceased, and the men collected in a great crowd at the lower end of town. What was to become of them? How were they to leave? It was time for them to think of what they were going to do. This proved to be the moment for which Channing had waited. He leaped on the box of a dry water trough and shouted for attention. Scores of the men knew him, and the crowd was liberally sprinkled with his friends. They gave him a cheer on general principles. They wanted and needed a leader.
“Listen, men!” he cried in a ringing voice, “I know what you’re all thinking about. You’re wondering what you’re going to do. Every last man of you that wants a job can have it. I’ll give it to you!” His voice was drowned in cheers, and it was some little time before he could continue. He held aloft a paper and waved it before their eyes. “Here’s an order from the Yellow Daisy for teams and ore wagons and powder and tools. There’s a place up here in the hills to the west we want to bombard and open up. It’ll mean work for all of you who want it, and your wages on this first job are ten dollars a day guaranteed by Turner and Wescott over their signatures. How many of you want to go?”
He waved another paper before their eyes, and they stared silently for several moments. Mental vision of another glory hole in their brains invited them. But the thought of having something to do at once—of work without the necessity of hunting for it—was the thing that impressed them most. A huge, red-faced man stepped forward and took the papers from Channing’s hand. He was the former boss of the day shift, and Channing knew him well. He examined the papers and turned to face the crowd.
“It’s all right, boys,” he shouted, “we’ll go!”
A great, tumultuous cheer from scores of lusty throats rose on the still desert air as the first rays of the morning sun slanted over the hills and stained the Yellow Daisy glory hole the color of fool’s gold.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Channing got down from his perch on the water trough and the men swarmed about him. He picked out the big foreman of the day shift, Sam Irvine, and several others to take charge and gave his orders crisply. His lieutenants then went about the work of getting things ready for the trip out of Bandburg.
While Channing went to two of the stores to arrange for food supplies, tobacco, and other commissary needs for the men, and quietly bought a number of rifles and other firearms and a quantity of ammunition, Sam Irvine superintended the getting out of the teams, ore wagons, tools, powder and fuse, and other requirements of the expedition.
Channing strolled casually about the camp when he had finished making his purchases, which were charged to Turner and Wescott of the Yellow Daisy.
“Is it another glory hole?” he was asked by several men.
“No, boys, it’s not a glory hole . . . not the kind you mean,�
�� he said, smiling. “It’s hard-rock work for a short spell, and then it’s any kind of work for a long spell. But it’s sure better than sticking around here broke or beating it out of the desert to look for work . . . and work’s scarce.”
It satisfied most of the men. But there were scores who were not fit even to think about work, and there were others who were going out on the stages and on horses. The women had practically all gone. Channing wisely estimated that he would have about one hundred men for his undertaking when it came to the actual start—these in addition to a score of friends, most of whom, with the exception of Irvine, had been working at the gaming tables or at other occupations in the resorts.
As the morning advanced, two or three of the resorts reopened. But the majority of them remained closed, or, rather, open but abandoned. The stock of liquor had been mostly consumed, and what remained had been cached in spots remote from the main street. The Bluebird and other big resorts did not reopen for business. They were deserted by their proprietors who, knowing the camp was dead, had fled with their profits to new fields. Bandburg was a sorry-looking sight. In days to come some fresh boom might revive it, but there were no indications of such a revival this morning.
The heat descended, and the men sought the interiors of business places and the few reopened resorts. Some crawled away to their cabins or tents to get a wink of sleep. The ones Channing and Irvine depended upon helped with the preparations to leave.
Channing went up to Lillian Bell’s cabin. He found her with a pack made up and two suitcases ready.
“All ready to go?” he said cheerfully. “Well, I wasn’t sure just how it was going to pan out, but everything seems to be coming around all right. We’re taking some wagons, so we can take all the stuff along you want. I guess we can even take the piano.”
“What’s this I hear about you giving the men work?” asked Lillian.
“My, news travels fast,” Channing said with a pretense of surprise. “How in the world did you hear that so soon?”
“Now don’t be stalling me, Channing,” the girl reproved. “What’re you fixing to do?”
“I’m fixing to go downtown and get some breakfast if I can’t get anything up here,” said Channing with a mock scowl.
Lillian sighed and shrugged. “You’re past me, Channing,” she said. “You like to keep folks in a fog. I believe you want people to think you’re mysterious. I don’t suppose there’s any use in me asking where we’re going. Well, I’m willing to take a chance . . . with you.” She looked at him quickly.
“You’re not taking any chance with me, girl,” he said, putting his hat on the table.
She turned away with a disappointed look in her eyes. “I’ll get you . . . us some breakfast,” she said. “Maybe you’ll loosen up when you’ve hung on the feedbag.”
Channing laughed and went into the kitchen, while Lillian prepared a hasty breakfast that was mostly bacon and eggs.
“Did you say something about wanting to know where you were going?” he asked. They were sitting down to breakfast.
“Has it affected you already?” she said with a lift of her brows. “I guess it’s the smell of the coffee. Oh, I’m not so particular, so long as you’re along as my knight gallant. You did tolerably well last night, and I suppose I should be grateful.”
“We’re going to Rancho del Encanto,” Channing volunteered.
Lillian stared, incredulous. “You taking this big outfit there?” she asked in genuine astonishment. “Is there a mine on that ranch, for goodness sakes? You struck gold there?”
“Maybe,” said Channing vaguely. “Oh . . . er . . . it’ll be white gold I’ll be mining, if any. No use, girl. I won’t tell you about my business . . . yet. But that’s where we’re going, and we can take anything you want to pack.”
This was as much as she could get out of him, and he left as soon as they had eaten, with the promise that he would return soon with a wagon.
When he left the cabin, he hurried to the Yellow Daisy property and there found everything in readiness. Soon the wagons, filled with supplies, tools, powder, and men, were proceeding down the road to the lower end of the main street. Channing had one of the teamsters drive up the street to where they could carry down the belongings Lillian wished to take. She was to ride in this wagon, on the seat with the driver. Channing was on his horse ready to start.
As they were going back to join the rest of the outfit, the old assayer hailed him from in front of his little office.
Channing rode over and leaned toward him.
“Brood an’ some callers just rode outta town, goin’ west,” said the man in an undertone. “Thought maybe you’d be interested.”
“Thanks, Pap,” said Channing. “You figure on staying here? Why don’t you trail along with us?”
The old man shook his head. “I’m through movin’,” he said. “If this is goin’ to be a ghost camp, I’m goin’ to be one of the ghosts.”
Channing reached down and shook his hand before he rode on.
Shortly before noon the teams and wagons streamed out the lower end of town, turned off the road that led south toward the railroad, and started into the desert in a direction west by north. Channing rode in the lead.
Those who had elected to stay in town, or who were going out of the desert by any means they could, watched them go. It was a queer procession—an exodus that hinted of the days of the pioneers. There was no road, no trail—only trackless desert and a blue-gray sea of greasewood and sage. The sun beat down with frightful ferocity, wreathing the water bags in misty vapor. Men tilted canteens and wet their foreheads and passed the last of the pilfered bottles against their better judgment. Streams of perspiration coursed through the thick dust on the flanks of the horses. And behind the wagons trailed a score of burros driven by a grizzled miner on a rangy nag.
The heat increased steadily as the sun mounted into the blazing sky. The horses walked slowly, picking their way behind Channing, who shrewdly selected the best passage through the scant vegetation. The men swore and suffered and drank immense quantities of water. Channing had seen to it that every water bag and canteen available had been filled and taken along. He would have preferred to make the trip at night. It would have been easier on the horses and the men—easier all around—but he did not want to risk another day in town. There was a chance that his plan would miscarry through a demand on the part of the men as to the nature of the work and other details. He depended upon Sam Irvine to hold them. They liked Irvine and had worked for him.
Channing rode back occasionally to see how Lillian Bell was standing the trip. She had a huge umbrella that had been commandeered somewhere, and it covered her and the driver on the seat beside her. There were no other men in this wagon. She always greeted him with a smile and a line of banter.
The sun swung overhead—a burning ball of fire. Mirages shimmered on level spaces in the distance. Even the soft, blue haze that draped the lava hills suggested heat. The western mountains, thrusting their grim heights above the purple veils that wavered about their shoulders, looked like the pieces of a picture puzzle stood on end. The dust rose in thick clouds and settled on the caravan.
It was mid-afternoon when they reached the water hole, Dick’s Wells. Here they halted. The men crowded around the well and drank their fill. Then the water bags and canteens were all refilled. Next the muleskinners unhooked their teams and led the horses, one by one, to water. When this had been done, the water in the well was almost gone. It would take hours for it to fill again.
Channing had gotten out a basket containing cheese, canned beans, corned beef, canned tomatoes, and peaches, and these were handed out to the men with big slices of bread. But none had a great appetite. It was too hot to eat, too hot to think of anything but the everlasting heat. So, after an hour to rest the horses, they pushed on.
Through the balance of the afternoon they plowed through dust and heat while the sun slipped down the west arch of the sky. With the sunset, f
laming red above the peaks, the air began gradually to lose some of its heat. It did not become cool, to be sure, but the absence of the sun lessened the impression of heat to a great extent. It was still hot when twilight fell, but it was heat that was endurable, and it seemed cool compared with the blast of the inferno by day.
They swung at last into the foothill road and turned north while the men gave a hearty cheer. The day over and a cool breeze creeping down the cañons from the mountains renewed their spirits. They cared little for what was ahead of them. They were out of the inferno for a time, anyway, and it was a welcome relief.
Night gathered its velvet curtains, strewed them with stars, and its wind voices whispered above the echoes of hoofs and the crunch of iron tires on the road. They swung over the ridge and into Rancho del Encanto. Channing led them to the space about the barns. Soon fires had been built and coffee pails slung. Horses were unhitched, watered, and turned into the stalls for oats and hay and rest. The men laughed and joked and sang snatches of song as they spread their blankets on the grass under the cottonwoods. They were in a good mood.
Channing had superintended all this, but first he had taken Lillian Bell to the house and turned her over to the astonished Hope.
“What does all this mean?” Nathan Farman had demanded.
“I’ve no time to talk now,” Channing had said coolly.
But now that supper for the men was under way, the horses looked after, the packs of supplies opened, and camp made, he strolled back to the house and entered the living room, followed by Nathan Farman.
“Looks like you was taking charge of the place for fair,” was the rancher’s comment.
Channing saw Hope and Lillian peering down the stairs.
“I am,” he said, turning to Farman with a smile.
Man of the Desert: A Western Story Page 21