by Short, Luke;
And Bonanza canyon—for so it had been named by the hopeful Tip—was jammed with pack mules and horses, timber, tents, miners, and tons of freighted supplies. Where ten days ago a bleak and waterless canyon opened its sun-baked barrenness to the sky, a miners’ shantytown was springing up. Since the original claims almost blanketed the sandy floor, the buildings were being erected on each side of the canyon. Two roadways had been laid out. In a small rincon on the northern side, Tim Prince already had a clapboard saloon thrown together, and his sign was out. All down the canyon, skeletons of buildings were rising among the tents. The ore-bearing land around the dike had long since been staked out, and now the speculators were selling claims on the rock rim and for a half mile beyond it. Sober townsmen who had never been known to spend a careless penny were paying fabulous prices for plots of worthless ground—and this on the sure rumor that both Westfall and Tip Rogers had struck it rich.
It was a sweating, brawling boom camp. Teamsters toiling to bring up the needed tons of construction material were cursing the up trail, their mules, the crowd, and their employers. Nobody seemed to know what to do, except to keep going. Half the mob was only curiosity seekers cluttering up the canyon and keeping the other half from getting anything done.
Westfall was working only his first claim, but he already had a wire fence up around his whole property. Inside the fence two big sheds had been erected, and for days now, he had had two shifts of men working night and day. Over the gate into the claim was a sign bearing the legend: Glory Hole, and the place had an air of hard efficiency already.
The smaller shed was the office, and it was in this that Big Westfall had his quarters. Two days before, he had sent off his first load of ore to the reduction mill in town. His freighters had had to fight their way down a tortuous trail through a continuous, close-packed line of men on their way to the boom camp. But today, as Westfall stood in the doorway of the office, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he felt more excited than he had since starting work.
“Sisson!” he bawled. From the shaft house, an overalled man came running to his side. “Put a man with a gun at that gate. I’m ridin’ down to Cosmos now.”
“For the reports?” Sisson asked.
“That’s right.”
Westfall went over to the lean-to beside the shaft house and brought out a horse, which he saddled. Then he set off on the road to town, his huge bulk a sort of wedge driven in this ceaseless stream of traffic making its way up to Bonanza canyon. Westfall regarded these pilgrims with some satisfaction. These were the people who always got left, the weaklings, the slow. They would get only the pickings from the camp, none of the real takings.
In the late afternoon Westfall passed through Cosmos and turned down the road to the reduction mill. Things were slack here, he saw, for he could only hear a few of the stamps going. With the closing of the Esmerella, the business of the mill had fallen off considerably. The mill hands were waiting impatiently until the ore from the Bonanza camp started to pour in to usher in a new era of wilder prosperity than Cosmos had ever seen before.
Westfall walked through the small office, nodding at the clerks, and knocked on Kinder’s door. He was told to enter. Kinder sat behind his desk, a scowl on his thin face. He rose at sight of Westfall and shook hands.
“You’re after your report.” He turned to the safe. When he came out, he had a paper in one hand, a small package in the other, and he laid both on the desk.
“There you are.”
Westfall seemed puzzled. He looked at Kinder and then came over and unfolded the package. It was a sheet of letter paper, and in the folds of it was a small heap of gold dust, its amount between one and two ounces.
“What’s this?” Westfall asked.
“Your first ton of ore reduced netted that much gold. The second ton netted about a quarter ounce, which I put in with this other. Look at the report and you’ll see,” Kinder said dryly.
Westfall picked up the report and glanced through it, and laid it down again without saying anything.
“You’ve got a pretty sorry thing there,” Kinder said gravely.
“But the assay showed it rich!”
“Does that look rich?”
Westfall scowled down at the paper. “What did Tip Rogers’s claims show?”
“He hasn’t brought in any ore yet.”
For a long moment, Westfall stood there, regarding the tiny amount of gold. He could have told himself that later reports would show better, but he was a man little given to self-deception. The plain facts were that Major Fitz and Carmody had been roped in. The ore Westfall sent down was the best ore on the best claim, and it was no good.
Silently, he picked up the dust and tucked it in his shirt pocket along with the report.
“Will you send any more down?” Kinder asked.
“I doubt it. But I’ll have to think it over, Kinder. Much obliged.”
He rode back into town and ate a lone meal. When the clock showed seven he went out to his horse again, mounted, and rode out the south road. Once up on the ridge, he turned off to the left and rode until he came to a tall pinnacle rock, which was just visible in the moonlight.
Major Fitz and Carmody were waiting at the base of it, and they greeted him as he swung down off his horse.
“What’s the report?” Fitz asked harshly. His voice was strained and impatient, almost angry. Carmody remained silent.
Westfall took out the two papers. “Two tons—an ounce and three quarters,” he informed Fitz.
“What?” Fitz barked. “Let’s see!”
Silently, Westfall handed him the paper, and Fitz struck a match. First he looked at the gold and cursed. Next he read the report, and threw it angrily to the ground. Then he came over and faced Westfall, his legs spread. He came nearly to Westfall’s shoulder, but again he contrived to seem the master.
“Westfall, what happened?”
“You’ve got it right there. I built the shacks, put two shifts of men to work on what looked to be the best claim. Like I told Carmody, two days ago I sent two wagons of ore down, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. You can see for yourself on the report.”
“Curse the report!” Fitz said angrily. “What’s happened to the gold?”
“There ain’t any.”
“You’re a liar!”
Westfall made an instinctive movement of protest when Carmody’s voice cut through the night. “Slow down, fella. I got a gun on you.” Westfall let his hands drop. Fitz hadn’t moved, and now his voice settled into what was nearly a snarl.
“I don’t know whether you’re double-crossing me out at the mine, or whether you and Kinder have it rigged between yourselves. But I know there’s gold there and I haven’t got it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my assay showed I ought to have fifty times what you’ve brought!”
“Who assayed it?”
“Hugo Miller, one of the few honest men I know.”
Westfall knew Hugo, knew he was honest. There was nothing he could say in reply, but that did not help the smoldering anger within him. “Fitz, I’ll take considerable off you, but I won’t take that. You and your mine can go rot. I quit!”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Fitz said with a terrible gentleness in his voice. “You won’t do anything of the kind. You’ll go back to that mine and you’ll get some more ore down to Kinder. And when you bring this next report—say in four days—it had better be different. That is, if you value your health.”
“I don’t have to work for you, Fitz!” Westfall said hotly. “Who do you think you are that you can keep me there?”
“Tomorrow morning I’ll have nine men in the crowd at that camp. If you make a break to get away, it’ll be committing suicide. If you talk to anyone and tell them that I’m behind you, that’ll be fatal, too. Do I make myself clear enough?”
Breathing hard with the anger that had taken hold of him, Westfall did not answer immediately. But he had excellent
control of his temper, and he saw the uselessness of argument. “I reckon you do,” he said, mildly. “I’ll go back, Fitz. Only, I’m telling you right now, the next report you get on this ore will be worse than the first. There’s no gold there.”
“There’d better be,” Fitz said.
Westfall mounted and headed up the canyon where he would pick up the trail back to the mine. He knew that within twenty minutes, nine of Fitz’s men would be following him. If he wanted to make a break for it, now was the time. But Westfall was no puncher, no outlaw, and he had the great good sense to see that his skill in evading these trained men would never match their skill in catching him. And once they did catch him, there could only be one end for him. His forehead beaded with sweat. He was no coward; still, he was no fool. There was only one thing to do, go back to the mine, sort out every rock in the next shipment so that the next report would be better, and then, after Fitz had called off his men, dodge out of the country. That was his only chance.
Next morning, back at the mine, Westfall gave his instructions. Every shovel of ore that went in the wagons was to be hand-picked for the color shown in it. Both shifts of men were put to the work, but it still went with agonizing slowness. Twice that day, Westfall saw suspicious-looking hombres hanging around the gate of the Glory Hole, but the shed was shut, so that the secret of his scheme was kept.
That night, a ton of ore was ready for freighting. It was the best Westfall could do, and he directed the freighters to start out with it. Their instructions were to tell Kinder that he wanted a report on it by tomorrow night. At least this would give him time enough to think up an excuse in case the report was bad.
And it was bad. When he went down the next afternoon, Kinder greeted him with a shake of the head. “You’ve got a lemon, Westfall. Look at this.”
He had a small box on the table almost filled with dust, and pointing to it, he said, “This assays out about forty dollars a ton. If you had a mile of claims, a million dollars in capital behind you, and a reduction mill on the property, you’d almost have a paying proposition. As it is, I don’t think you have.”
Westfall contrived a smile. “That’s too bad,” he said mildly. “What about Rogers?”
“His first load is in the mill now. I’ll have a report in an hour.”
Westfall picked up the box in his big fist, took the papers, and bid Kinder good night. In Cosmos, he dismounted at the Cosmos House, but he discovered he had no appetite. So for one solid hour, he paced the streets, oblivious to passers-by, cudgeling his brains for a way to break this news to Fitz. And he had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched all the while. At the end of the hour, he suddenly realized he was hungry, and he went over to the Cosmos House. Despair was riding him. There was no way out of this.
Chapter Twenty-One: CAPTURE
Hugo Miller came back from supper at the Cosmos and let himself in the front door of his office. In the darkness he could see a pencil of light shining under the door of the back room, and instinctively he drew his gun. Tiptoeing back through the room, he reached the back door, noiselessly turned the knob, and slammed the door open—on Johnny Hendry.
Johnny was stripped to the waist and was standing in front of the mirror, his face lathered with soap, a straightedge razor in his hand. He looked over his shoulder as the door crashed, and drawled, “You nearly made me cut my throat, Hugo. You’re sure spooky.”
Hugo holstered his gun and said, “Where’ve you been, Johnny?” Johnny started to tell him, but Hugo raised a hand. “I only asked because I’ve been wanting to see you for over a week now.”
Johnny stared at him. “News?”
“Plenty. I’ve matched that ore of Pick’s. I know who stole the location papers from Pick. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week.” And swiftly Hugo told him the story of Tip’s discovery, and of Westfall. He told him also about the rush which had started up in Bonanza canyon, and Johnny listened with a grim amazement.
Night before last was the night he and Turk and Hank had started the war between the Running W and the Bar 33. They had slept through the whole next day. Last night, the three of them had again raided Major Fitz’s herds, and again successfully. They had planted them in a canyon behind the Running W, where Fitz’s men had tracked them today. But Leach and his men had moved off up into the hills, and there was no one at the Running W for Fitz to fight. It was this lull that had allowed Johnny a breathing-space, and time to visit Hugo. He knew nothing of the rush to Bonanza canyon. And now Hugo’s story seemed almost like a fairy tale. But what was not a fairy tale was that Hugo knew the man who must have Pick’s stolen location papers in his possession.
“You know this whippoorwill, Westfall?” Johnny asked slowly, his face still half covered with lather.
“He’s down at the Cosmos House now.”
Without a word, Johnny started to wipe his face.
“Finish your shave,” Hugo told him. “He was just coming in when I left. When you’re done, we’ll go after him.”
Johnny’s hand was trembling so that he cut himself before he was finished, and all the while he listened to Hugo’s description of the Bonanza camp, and of Westfall’s tactics. And the more he listened, the more grim was the exultation that filled Johnny’s heart.
“And there’s another thing,” Hugo said quietly. “I don’t know whether I’m buttin’ in on your business or not, Johnny, when I tell you this.”
“What?”
“Nora is engaged to Tip Rogers. She’s taken his ring, so folks say.”
Johnny turned to the basin and doused his face. He could not trust himself to let Hugo see his expression. But when he stepped back from the basin and reached for a towel his face was cold, impassive. “That so? Well, Tip’ll make her a pretty good husband, I reckon,” he said carelessly. But, lest Hugo think this unfriendly, Johnny grinned a little. “Me, I wouldn’t. She didn’t think so, Hugo.”
“I’m sorry, Johnny Hendry.”
“So am I. But I know when I’m licked,” Johnny said grimly, and reached for his shirt. As he tested his gun, making sure it was loaded, Hugo outlined his plan to trap Westfall. Hugo would wait on his horse in the alley beside the Cosmos House. When Westfall came out and mounted, Hugo was to see which way he went, then ride out into the street and overtake him. Once he was past him, Hugo would slow down. The man following Hugo out of town then would be Westfall. With the glasses which Hugo would lend Johnny, he could keep a careful watch on the street from the south of town. The chances were that Westfall would ride south, and in that case his capture would be an easy thing to effect.
Johnny disappeared into the night to join Hank and Turk on the outskirts of town. Once with them, he told them tersely about Hugo’s discovery. He stationed himself on a little rise beyond the recorder’s office and trained his glasses on the hotel. The waiting was intolerable, but when, after twenty minutes, Johnny saw a big man come out of the Cosmos House and mount his horse and turn south, he felt an excitement crawling through his blood. When Hugo, seconds later, wheeled out of the alley and trotted down the street, overtaking the man, then slowed down to a walk, Johnny was sure.
Up the road, where the trail started to lift out of the canyon, Johnny remembered a gnarled and twisted old piñon whose limbs reached out over the road. He and Turk and Hank made for this point. While Turk and Hank took the horses and hid them, Johnny pulled himself up into the thick branches of the piñon and snaked out on its thickest lower limb until he was directly over the road.
When Hugo rode under the tree, Johnny called softly, “Ride on ahead, Hugo.”
A few moments later, the dark bulk of horse and rider loomed up in the road. The horse was walking, as if its rider were sunk in thought. As the rider approached, Johnny prepared himself for the leap. The horse walked under the limb.
Johnny slid off the limb and landed square on top of Westfall, and together they tumbled into the dust of the road. Even as they lit, Johnny’s fists were flailing, but it was un
necessary. Westfall was cold. The fall had done that.
Turk and Hank and Hugo appeared, and they tied Westfall’s hands behind him. It was minutes before Turk could catch up Westfall’s horse, and in that time, Westfall regained consciousness and sat up.
“Are you Bar 33 men?” he asked quietly.
“Not much,” Johnny said grimly, shortly, and turned to Hank. Already he could hear Turk returning with the horse.
“We’ll have this session out in the malpais,” Johnny said quietly. “You comin’, Hugo?”
“Try and keep me away.”
Soon Westfall was tied on his horse, whose reins were in Johnny’s hands, and they rode silently single file through the dark on the way to the camp in the malpais.
Chapter Twenty-Two: CAMPFIRE CONCLAVE
Hank built a big fire in the gravel while the rest of them untied Westfall and then unsaddled. By the time they were finished, there was a roaring fire going, and it pushed night far back behind the malpais walls. Neither Turk, Hugo, nor Hank talked, for this was Johnny’s affair. They watched silently as Johnny led Westfall over to the fire and untied his bonds. They looked at the man, at his massive body, his openly puzzled face, and privately they wondered—all except Hugo. His ores had never betrayed him; this was the man who first started digging at Pick’s ore, and it followed that he was Pick’s killer.
Westfall looked at the four of them, his face—if not amiable—composed. But he was bewildered, too.
When the ropes were off, he chafed his wrists, and looked over at Johnny.
“You wouldn’t know what this is all about, I suppose,” Johnny said softly, scornfully.
Westfall shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“You don’t know me?”
“Never seen you before.”
“Ever hear of Johnny Hendry?” Johnny asked, as he unbuckled his shell belt and let it slide to the ground.
Westfall nodded. “Sure. I’ve heard of you. You’re outlawed now, ain’t you?”