Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937)

by Oliver Strange

“Which we was, an’ missed it just the same,” Lem reminded.

  Rodd had been searching the senseless figure on the floor; he found only a few greenbacks, and some small change. The cowboys’ room produced nothing.

  “No use hangin’ about here,” Fagan decided. “Our luck seems to be dead out.” One by one they disappeared into the darkness, leaving the cabin looking as though a tempest had passed through it, and in the midst of his broadcast belongings, the victim of their cupidity.

  So Rogers found him later, and having doctored the hurt —an ugly scalp wound—to the best of his ability, got the old man to bed and straightened up the place. It was some hours ere Jacob recovered sufficiently to explain, and he did not tell all he knew.

  “Must ‘a’ been someone who knowed Jim an’ his pardner warn’t here—wouldn’t ‘a’ tried it else,” the miner decided. “Me an’ the boys’ll camp with you till they’re back.”

  “That’s good of you, Rogers, but they know there’s nothing here now,” the patient protested.

  “Shore, but other skunks don’t, an’ Deadwood’s full of ‘em,” was the reply. “On that, you’ll need nussin’. If Jim comes back an’ finds we ain’t looked after you he’ll crawl our humps good an’ plenty.”

  “I can’t picture you afraid of anyone,” the gold-buyer smiled.

  “You got me wrong,” Rogers said. “If Jim invited me to pull my gun I’d do it an’ go to hell with my self-respect, anyways. But he’s white, an’ I’d hate for him to be disappointed in me.

  Sabe?” Jacob looked at the rough, hard face and smiled again. “I know, my friend,” he said gently. “A white man. That is saying it all. I’d ask for no better epitaph.” He was silent for a while, thinking, and then he turned to Rogers.

  “Listen. I am not much hurt—just a broken head, but I intend to lie low and let it be thought serious,” he said. “When d’you figure the boys’ll be back?” Rogers asked.

  “I cannot guess. They are on a dangerous mission and I shall be anxious,” was the reply.

  Chapter XVIII

  The gold-buyer was not the only one to be concerned respecting the cowboys. Lesurge, from entirely different motives, was also worried. Everything else was going well. Stark’s influence in Deadwood was growing, and he had the man in his pocket. Hickok, whom he feared, was disposed of, and his slayer—having been acquitted by a miners’ court—had left the district, to pay the penalty for his crime later, after a trial before a regular tribunal.

  All was now ready for the final coup—the seizure of Ducane’s mine, the wealth from which would enable him to gratify his grasping ambition. But for this he needed Green, who—as he believed—alone knew the location, and he coveted the gold stolen from the stage. So, as day succeeded day, and there was no sign of the puncher, Paul’s usually placid forehead grew more furrowed. Once, as they were finishing the evening meal, he jocularly referred to the difficulty he was facing:

  “Forgetfulness must be catching, Phil, and you seem to have infected Miss Mary.”

  “Memories is queer things, Paul,” Snowy replied. “Mine has served me scurvy tricks but I reckoned I’d played safe when I took Green with me that time—plainsmen is used to rememberin’ trails. Now it looks like he’s got lost in the woods—I ain’t seen him quite a while.” Lesurge told him why, giving the version he had used for Stark, and concluding with, “I doubt if either of them will show up again.” Lora had listened with growing doubt. He had told her nothing of this matter, but she was acquainted with his methods. Her shrewd brain divined the deadlock he had stumbled into, and even self-interest did not prevent a sense of spiteful satisfaction.

  “You seem to have handled this outlaw all the cards, Paul,” she remarked. “He has the gold, and—since he alone knows where to find it—he has the mine too. I’ve never known you so generous.” The cool, sarcastic tone stung as though she had lashed him with a whip, but while his dark eyes were threatening, his voice remained unruffled:

  “Lora, with her usual lucidity, has put the matter in a nutshell. If Green does not

  return …”

  “He dasn’t, if he’s corralled the gold,” Snowy pointed out. “That’s so, and therefore we have to find the mine without him,” Paul said. “Mary, can’t you cudgel that pretty head and come to our assistance?” The girl shook the pretty head. Though she did not know why her silence was desired, she was loyal to the old man. “It ain’t Paul, but the fellas he’s mixed up with,” her uncle had said. “They might git ahead of us. Which was not very clear, but it satisfied her.

  “I’ve tried to remember,” she replied. “Something about travelling north-west, over a ridge and past a peak, but that doesn’t help much, does it?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Paul admitted. “The confounded country is all ridges and peaks. Never mind, we’ll find it; I don’t allow little obstacles like that to beat me.” He looked at his sister. “One of your admirers is complaining of not seeing you. Yes, Reuben Stark. Suppose we all go over and let Mary see what Deadwood can do in the way of entertainment?”

  “I’d like to, if it will be-all right,” the girl said.

  “Of course it will—you’ll be with us,” Lora cried eagerly. “Come along, we must make ourselves beautiful.” Lesurge paid the obvious compliment as they ran out of the room, and turned to his companion.

  “Phil, that niece of yours”—there was a sneering emphasis on the last word—“gets prettier every day. You’ll lose her, certain, but not, I hope, to a common cowboy.”

  “Her father ran a small ranch an’ warn’t o’ much account,” Snowy replied.

  “No reason for her to stay in the mire because she was born there,” the other retorted. “If her uncle”—again the emphasis—“was not romancing, she’ll be a rich woman, and should marry a—gentleman.”

  “Yeah,” Snowy said, and then, with apparent inconsequence, “She thinks a lot o’ yu, Paul.”

  “I’m very glad to know it,” Lesurge smiled, and turning to the door, failed to see the old man’s savage grimace.

  The Monte provided three forms of amusement for its patrons. On the right of the wide space in front of the long bar, with its shining array of bottles, one might lose or win money, as fortune decided, at various games of chance; on the left there was dancing, to the strains of a couple of fiddles and a somewhat tinny piano; for those who cared for neither of these attractions, tables and chairs enabled them to consume liquor in comfort.

  At first, the bright lights, swimming in a haze of blue tobacco smoke, the music, the clamour of many voices and boisterous laughter would have made Mary Ducane retreat, but the sight of her own sex among the company reassured her. Ignorant of the world, she did not notice that they were harsh-toned, over-painted and under-dressed; they were women, and justified her presence.

  A hum of admiration greeted Lora Lesurge, as, arm-in-arm with the younger girl, she advanced along the narrow aisle leading to the back of the room. Cold, aloof, confident in the power of her beauty, she stilled the tongues of men who had well nigh lost respect for everything that wore a skirt. The saloonkeeper, who had seen her enter, watched her progress with greedy eyes.

  “Damn me, she’s shore a queen,” he muttered, and hastened to meet her.

  She received him with a baffling smile and presented her companion.

  “Miss Lora,” he said. “The Monte is honoured indeed; if I’d knowed … Pleased to meetcha, Miss Ducane. Hello, Paul; yo’re a public benefactor, for once; Deadwood don’t see near enough of its most charmin’ citizens.” He led the way to a table set apart, at which two men were sitting. They rose, bowed to the women, and would have moved away but Stark protested:

  “Set down, boys, you know pretty near everybody here. Miss Ducane, meet Jack Lider an’ Bill Eddy, two o’ the town’s most prominent men.”

  “Don’t you believe him, ma’am,” Eddy smiled, as he shook hands. “There’s on’y one prominent man in Deadwood an’ he’s goin’ to order a bottle of wine, ain’t
you, Reuben?”

  “No, sir,” Stark grinned. “I’m agoin’ to order two.” The wine was brought, the ladies toasted, and the men began to discuss Deadwood’s most absorbing topic—gold. Mary was free to study the strange scene. The noise was incessant. To the jangle of the piano and scraping of the fiddles, she watched rough-shirted, coatless men dancing, their heavy boots beating up clouds of dust from the board floor. A few had female partners, others one of their own sex, and to keep moving seemed to be the only rule observed. Bursts of laughter and an occasional good-natured oath when one couple collided with another punctuated the proceedings. On the other side of the room, where the gamblers were gathered, there was little less din; above the rattle of dice, the shuffling of feet, and whirr of the roulette wheel, players loudly bemoaned their losses or exulted over their gains. Throughout the room men wrangled and cursed each other, but she saw no violence.

  Absorbed in what was going on, Mary took little notice of the conversation, but she gleaned that they were talking of the coach robbery, and that Eddy and Lider were, after Stark, the principal sufferers.

  “I acted for the best,” she heard the saloonkeeper say. “Jacob vouched for Green, an’ he was riskin’ a tidy bit hisself.”

  “Perhaps he was in on it,” Paul suggested.

  “Hell! I never thought o’ that,” Stark said. “Come to think, I ain’t seen him since, neither.

  What is it?” as an attendant approached.

  The man whispered something and Stark went with him to the door. In a few moments he returned.

  “Just had word that Jacob was beaten up an’ his cabin ransacked the night after the hold-up,” he informed them. “What d’you make o’ that?”

  “Suppose he was concerned in the robbery, Green returns, and they quarrel,” Paul surmised.

  “Why should Green come back?” Eddy asked. “If he wanted to double-cross Jacob, he’d on’y to stay away—he’s got the goods. No, gents, we won’t see that fella any more, I’ll betcha.”

  “What will you wager, Mister Eddy?” Lora laughed.

  He followed the direction of her eyes and started to his feet, staring in ludicrous amazement.

  “Holy Smoke!” he breathed. “There’s the man hisself.” Sudden and his friend had just entered the saloon. Despite the precautions to secure secrecy, someone had chattered, and it was generally known that the stage had been waylaid and that the cowboys were the culprits. All heads were turned towards them and a hush fell over the assembly as they stepped unconcernedly to the bar; the music stopped, the dancers stood still, the gamblers paused in their games, and even the gayest of the girls ceased her prattle.

  “Well you gotta hand it to him for nerve,” one whispered. “Mebbe he thinks it ain’t knowed,” his neighbour said. “He’s liable to git a surprise. Would you look at Reub’s face?” In fact, the saloonkeeper, pop-eyed and purple, appeared to be on the verge of an apoplectic seizure as he glared at the man he expected never to see again. On Lesurge the cowboy’s advent produced the numbing effect of a blow. What was his game? Why had he not come to him first?

  Surely he could not be hoping to get away with such a colossal bluff? The fool was walking to his own funeral. Paul shrugged his shoulders; provided he could get from him where the plunder was hidden …

  Apparently indifferent to the interest his arrival was arousing, Sudden, nodding to men he knew, made his way to Stark’s table. His eyes narrowed when he saw the women, but he swept his hat off, and spoke to their host.

  “Can I have a word with yu, seh?”

  “You can—right now,” Stark snapped. “An’ don’t try any funny business or you’ll git too much lead in yore system.” The puncher glanced around; a dozen of the men sitting near were covering him with their pistols. With a smile of contempt, he folded his arms.

  “The funny business ‘pears to be comin’ from yu,” he said. “Cut it short,” Stark bawled.

  “Why are you here?”

  “You hired us to go with the stage,” was the reply. “I’m here to report.”

  “We’re listenin’,” Stark growled.

  “They were layin’ for us a piece along the trail,” Sudden began. “They downed the lead hosses, shot the driver an’ messenger.” He did not say whose work this was; he believed he had killed Lem and he had an account to settle with Hank. “We stood ‘em off, harnessed our own broncs in the lead, an’got away. Later, we patched Joe up an’ he sat on the box an’ sorta kept cases on my drivin’.”

  “But where’s the dust?” Lider asked impatiently.

  “Did yu expect me to bring it back?” was the sardonic query. “Far as I know it’s on the way East. The express company’s fella took charge of it at Laramie.” Master as he was in the art of cloaking his emotions, Lesurge found it difficult to listen unmoved. Was Green lying? he asked himself, or had he really played this trick upon him? He was soon to learn.

  Stark’s expression was incredulous. “You think we’d fall for that?” he sneered. “We’ve heard a different story, my man.” Sudden bent forward and spoke quietly. “Stark, when yu call me a liar yo’re standin’ on the lip o’ hell, an’ all that ars’nal back o’ me couldn’t save yu.” The saloonkeeper was no coward, but those ice-cold, implacable eyes made him shiver. He was about to stammer some excuse, but the other saved him the trouble:

  “I knowed yu wouldn’t believe me, so I fetched—this.” Stark picked up the paper the cowboy had thrown on the table. One glance and his face changed with startling abruptness.

  “Boys, we’re all right,” he cried. “It’s a receipt for the gold from the company’s agent at Laramie. Hello, what’s this?” His brows met in a puzzled frown. “‘One box, stated to contain ten thousand dollars’ worth of dust, was filled with lead. It was consigned in the name of Paul Lesurge’.” He looked at Sudden. “Can you explain that?”

  “When I turned the stuff over I made the agent open the boxes an’ weigh it up.”

  “Any reason for thinkin’ there was somethin’ wrong?” Eddy inquired.

  “No, but I warn’t takin’ chances.”

  “Someone must have made the substitution,” Lesurge put in, with an accusing glance at the puncher.

  “The agent says the seals were untouched,” Stark pointed out.

  “Ah, then I know where to look for the thief,” Paul rejoined carelessly. “1 left the packing to one of my men.” It was well done, and for the time, it served. Lora smothered a smile; she was not deceived. What a clever devil he was, but this black-haired, firm-jawed young cowboy had bested, though not beaten him; she knew Paul.

  Stark was speaking again. “Well, Green, it seems we’ve been blamin’ when we oughta be thankin’ you. I’m takin’ it back.

  Set down an’ help yoreself.” The knowledge that his money was safe had put him in great good humour and he was disposed to be generous. “Tell us what we can do for you.”

  “The dead messenger has mebbe a family an’ Injun Joe won’t drive for quite a while,”

  Sudden said.

  “We’ll see to that,” Lider promised. “What about yourself?”

  “Me an’ Gerry took this on to oblige Jacob, an’ we ain’t needin’ anythin’.”

  “That’s very well put, Green, but for myself—though by a mischance I don’t benefit by what you have done—I feel in your debt,” Lesurge said. “I shall look forward to squaring the account.” Sudden sensed the underlying threat and smiled. “When I start anythin’ I like to finish it,” was his apparently inconsequent reply.

  “We’ve had bad news of the old man,” Eddy said, and told it. The puncher rose instantly.

  “I must get along to him—he’ll be by himself,” he excused. He was about to call Gerry, but that young man was by Mary’s side, and appeared to be enjoying himself. So he went alone.

  Gerry, however, was having anything but a good time. As soon as he realized that it really was Mary, he had forgotten all about their business with Stark and promptly proceeded to whe
re she was sitting, a little apart from the others. Conscious that the sight of him had made her heart beat faster, she did not speak. Gerry was too angry to notice the omission.

  “What are yu doin’ in this place?” he asked bluntly.

  The low, brusque tone offended her. “I came with my friends,” she replied coolly.

  “They’d no right to bring yu, it ain’t—decent.”

  “There are other women here.”

  “Yeah, an’ just because o’ that yu shouldn’t be,” he retorted bitterly.

  She knew it; these painted, scantily clad creatures who danced and drank with any man who invited them could be no warrant for her presence. But, being a woman, the fact that he was right only increased her resentment. This boy must be taught that she was not to be bullied.

  “How dare you presume to dictate to me?” she said haughtily, quite, as she believed, in the best Lora Lesurge manner. But when she saw the dawning smile in Gerry’s eyes she knew she had failed, and sought furiously for a way to punish him. “I am here with the man I expect to marry,” she added.

  “Shore yu are, but yu didn’t know I was comin’,” he grinned.

  His amusement, anger at the false position in which he found her, and disgust with the surroundings made her reckless. “I was referring to—Paul,” she said icily.

  The moment she had spoken the words she regretted them, but it was too late. The mirth faded from Mason’s face and it became hard, unyouthful.

  “I’m wishin’ yu joy,” he said, and rising, stalked out of the saloon.

  With hot, miserable eyes she watched him elbow his way unceremoniously through the clamorous crowd and vanish. Lora, who had noticed his abrupt departure, leant over and whispered, “What have you been doing to that boy?”

  “Putting him in his place,” Mary replied. A few yards away, a girl scarcely older than herself, had clasped her bare arms round the neck of her escort and dragged him shouting to the bar. “Are all the saloons as horrible as this?”

  “Don’t let Stark hear you—it would break his heart,” Lora laughed. “The Monte is the best-conducted in Deadwood.”