Louisiana Lou

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by Winter, William West


  Here he hunted until he came upon a narrow, out-jutting ledge which overlooked the country below and the main backbone of the range to the southward and eastward. From here he could see over the bench at the base of the cliff, with its maze of tangled, down timber, and on to the edge of Shoestring Cañon, though he could not see down into that gulch. Above Shoestring, however, he could see the rough trail which wound out of the cañon on the opposite side and up toward the crest of the range, where it was lost among the timber-clad gorges and peaks of the divide. Over this trail came such folk as crossed the range from the direction of Maryville. All who came from the Idaho side would head in by way of Shoestring and come up the cañon.

  That day, although he swept the hills assiduously with his glasses, he saw nothing. The dark smears and timber, startlingly black against the snow, remained silent, brooding and inviolate, as though the presence of man had never stirred their depths.

  He did not remain long. Fearing that he would be needed at the cabin, he returned before noon. Solange was progressing bravely, though she was still weak. Sucatash, however, was in worse shape and evidently would not be fit to move for several days.

  The next day he did not go to his post, but on the third morning, finding Sucatash improving, he again took up his vigil. On that day banked clouds hovered over the high peaks and nearly hid them from view. A chill and biting wind almost drove him from his post.

  Seeing nothing, he was about to return, but, just as a heavy flurry of snow descended upon him, he turned to give one last look toward the divide and found it lost in mist which hung down into the timber. Under this fleecy blanket, the cañon and the lower part of the trail stood forth clearly.

  Just as De Launay was about to lower his glasses, a man rode out of the timber, driving before him a half dozen pack horses. The soldier watched him as he dropped below the rim of the cañon and, although distant, thought he detected signs of haste in his going.

  This man had been gone hardly more than ten minutes when a second horseman rode down the trail. There might have been doubt in the case of the first rider, but it was certain that the second was in a hurry. He urged his horse recklessly, apparently in pursuit of the first man, whom he followed below the cañon’s rim.

  De Launay was earlier than usual at his post the next day. Yet he was not too early to meet the evidence of activity which was even more alert than his. But before he could settle himself he saw the trail across the cañon alive with moving men and beasts. In ones, twos, and threes they came. Some rode singly and without outfit, while others urged on pack animals. But one and all were in a hurry.

  He counted more than twoscore travelers who dropped into Shoestring within an hour and a half. Then there was a pause in the rush. For an hour no more came.

  After that flowed in another caravan. His glasses showed these were better equipped than the first comers though he was too far away to get any accurate idea of what they carried. Still a dim suspicion was filling his mind, and as each of the newcomers rushed down the trail and over the cañon rim his suspicion took more vivid form until it became conviction and knowledge.

  “By heavens! It’s a mining rush!”

  His mind worked swiftly. He jumped at the evidence he had seen where Banker had staked a claim. The prospector had ridden to Maryville to record the claims. He had been followed, and in an incredibly short time here were veritable hordes rushing into Shoestring Cañon. If this was the vanguard what would be the main body? It must have been a strike of fabulous proportions that had caused this excitement. And that strike must be——

  “French Pete’s Bonanza!” he almost yelled.

  The thing was astounding and it was true. In naming a rendezvous he, himself, had directed these men to the very spot—because there was no other spot. The obvious, as usual, had been passed by for years while the seekers had sought in the out-of-the-way places. But where would Pete find a mine when he was returning to the ranch with his flock? Surely not in the out-of-the-way places, for he would not be leading his sheep by such ways. He would be coming through the range by the shortest and most direct route, the very route that was the most frequented—and that was the trail over the range and down Shoestring Cañon.

  De Launay wanted to shout with laughter as he thought of the search of years ending in this fashion: the discovery of the Bonanza, under the very nose of the dead man’s daughter, by the very man who had murdered him!

  But his impulse was stifled as his keen mind cast back over the past days. He recalled the rescue of Solange and the ambush from the top of the great, flat outcrop. Vague descriptions of Pete’s location, heard in casual talks with Solange, came to him. The old sheep-herder had been able to describe his find as having been made where he had eaten his noonday meal “on a rock.” That rock—the Lunch Rock, as it had been called, had even given the mine a name in future legend, as the Peg Leg had been named.

  But there had been no rock that could answer the description near the camp. At least there had been only one, and that one had been the flat outcrop on which Banker had lain at length and from which he had attempted to shoot De Launay.

  Then swiftly he recalled Solange’s cry of warning and his own swift reaction. He had fired at the eyes and forehead appearing above the edge of the rock and he had hit the edge of the rock itself. He had laughed to see the mad prospector clawing at his eyes, filled with the powdered rock, and had laughed again to see his later antics as he stood upright, while De Launay rode away, waving his arms in the air and yelling.

  He saw now what had caused those frantic gestures and shouts. It had been he, De Launay, who had uncovered to the prospector’s gaze the gold which should have been mademoiselle’s.

  No wonder he had no desire to laugh as he turned back into the valley. He was weighted down with the task that was his. He had to tell Solange that the quest on which she had come was futile. That her mine was found—but by another, and through his own act. He visualized those wonderful eyes which had, of late, looked upon him with such soft fire, dulling under the chilling shock of disappointment, mutely reproaching him for her misfortune and failure.

  The wild Vale of Avalon, which had seemed such a lovely haven for Morgan la fée, had lost its charm. He plodded downward and across the rank grass, going slowly and reluctantly to the cabin. Entering it, he went first to Sucatash, asking him how he felt.

  The cow-puncher raised himself with rapidly returning strength, noting the serious expression on De Launay’s face.

  “I’m getting right hearty,” he answered. “I’ll drag myself out and sit up to-night, I reckon. But you don’t look any too salubrious yourself, old-timer. Aimin’ to answer sick call?”

  “No,” said De Launay. “Thinking about mademoiselle. You remember those stakes we saw?”

  “Banker’s claim? Sure.”

  “Well, he’s struck something. There is a small army pouring into Shoestring from Maryville. It’s a regular, old-time gold rush.”

  “Damn!” said Sucatash, decisively.

  He pondered the news a moment.

  “In these days,” he finally said, “with gold mines bein’ shut down because it don’t pay to work ’em, there wouldn’t be no rush unless he’d sure struck something remarkable.”

  “You’ve guessed it!” said De Launay.

  “It’s French Pete’s mine?”

  “I don’t see any other explanation.”

  Again Sucatash was silent for a time. Then:

  “That little girl is sure out o’ luck!” he said. There was a deep note of sympathy in the casual comment. And the cow-puncher looked at De Launay in a manner which the soldier readily interpreted.

  “No mine, no means of support, no friends within five thousand miles; nothing—but a husband she doesn’t want! Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Not meaning any offense, it was something like that,” said Sucatash, candidly.

  “She’ll get rid of the incumbrance, without trouble,” said De Launay, shor
tly.

  “Well, she ain’t quite shy of friends, neither. I ain’t got no gold mines—never took no stock in them. But I’ve got a bunch of cows and the old man’s got a right nice ranch. If it wasn’t for one thing, I’d just rack in and try my luck with her.”

  “What’s the one thing?”

  “You,” said Sucatash, briefly.

  “I’ve already told you that I don’t count. Her marriage was merely a formality and she’ll be free within a short time.”

  Sucatash grinned. “I hate to contradict you, old-timer. In fact, I sure wish you was right. But, even if she don’t know it herself, I know. It sure beats the deuce how much those eyes of hers can say even when they don’t know they’re sayin’ it.”

  De Launay nodded. He was thinking of the lights in them when she had turned them on him of late.

  “They told me something, not very long ago—and I’m gamblin’ there won’t be any divorce, pardner.”

  “There probably won’t,” De Launay replied, shortly. “It won’t be necessary.”

  He got up and went into the other room where Solange reclined on the bunk. He found her sitting up, dressed once more in leather breeches and flannel shirtwaist, and looking almost restored to full strength. Her cheeks were flushed again, but this time with the color of health. The firelight played on her hair, glowing in it prismatically. Her eyes, as she turned them on him, caught the lights and drew them into their depths. They were once more fathomless and hypnotic.

  But De Launay did not face them. He sat down on a rude stool beside the fire and looked into the flame. His face was set and indifferent.

  “Monsieur,” said Solange, “you are changed again, it seems. It is not pleasant to have you imitate the chameleon, in this manner. What has happened?”

  “Your mine has been found,” said De Launay, shortly.

  Solange started, half comprehending. Then, as his meaning caught hold, she cried out, hesitating, puzzled, not knowing whether his manner meant good news or bad.

  “But—if it has been found, that is good news? Why do you look so grim, monsieur? Is it that you are grieved because it has been found?”

  De Launay had half expected an outburst of joyous questions which would have made his task harder. In turn, he was puzzled. The girl did not seem either greatly excited or overjoyed. In fact, she appeared to be doubtful. Probably she could not realize the truth all at once.

  “It has been found,” he went on, harshly, “by Banker, the prospector from whom I rescued you.”

  Solange remained still, staring at him. He sat with elbows on his knees, his face outlined in profile by the fire. Clean and fine lined it was, strong with a thoroughbred strength, a face that a woman would trust and a man respect. As she looked at it, noting the somber suppression of emotion, she read the man’s reluctance and disappointment for her. She guessed that he buried his feelings under that mask and she wondered wistfully how deep those feelings were.

  “Then,” she said, at last, “it is not likely that this Monsieur Banker would acknowledge my claim to the mine?”

  “The mine is his under the law. I am afraid that you have no claim to it. Your father never located it nor worked it. As for Banker——”

  He paused until she spoke.

  “Well? And what of this Banker?”

  “He will not hold it long. But he has heirs, no doubt, who would not acknowledge your claim. Still, I will do my best. Sucatash will back us up when we jump the claim.”

  “Jump the claim? What is that?”

  He explained briefly the etiquette of this form of sport.

  “But,” objected Solange, “this man will resist, most certainly. That would mean violence.”

  A faint smile curled the man’s mouth under the mustache. “I am supposed to be a violent man,” he reminded her. “I’ll do the killing, and you and Sucatash will merely have to hold the claim. The sympathy of the miners will be with you, and there should be little difficulty unless it turns out that some one has a grubstake interest.”

  He had to explain again the intricacies of this phase of mining. Solange listened intently, sitting now on the edge of the bunk. When he was done, she slid to her feet and took position beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. Behind her, by the side of the bunk, was a short log, set on end as a little table, on which rested the holstered automatic which De Launay had left with her.

  “It appears then,” she said, when he had finished, “that, in any event I have no right to this mine. In order to seize it, you would have to fight and perhaps kill some one. But, monsieur, I am not one who would wish you to be a common bravo—a desperado—for me. This mine, it is nothing. We shall think no more of it.”

  Again De Launay was mildly surprised. He had supposed that the loss of the mine would affect her poignantly and yet she was dismissing it more lightly than he could have done had she not been concerned. And in her expression of consideration for him there was a sweetness that stirred him greatly. He lifted his hand to hers where it rested on his shoulder, and she did not withdraw from his touch.

  “And yet,” he said, “there is no reason that you should concern yourself lest I act like a desperado. There are those who would say that I merely lived up to my character. The General de Launay you have heard of, I think?”

  “I have heard of him as a brave and able man,” answered Solange.

  “And as a driver of flesh and blood beyond endurance, a butcher of men. It was so of the colonel, the commandant, the capitaine. And, of the légionnaire, you have heard what has always been heard. We of the Légion are not lap dogs, mademoiselle.”

  “I do not care,” said Solange.

  “And before the Légion, what? There was the cow-puncher, the range bully, the gunman; the swashbuckling flourisher of six-shooters; the notorious Louisiana.”

  He heard her breath drawn inward in a sharp hiss. Then, with startling suddenness, her hand was jerked from under his but not before he had sensed an instant chilling of the warm flesh. Wondering, he turned to see her stepping backward in slow, measured steps while her eyes, fixed immovably upon him, blazed with a fell light, mingled of grief, horror and rage. Her features were frozen and pale, like a death mask. The light of the fire struck her hair and seemed to turn it into a wheel of angry flame.

  There was much of the roused fury in her and as much of a lost and despairing soul.

  “Louisiana!” she gasped. “You! You are Louisiana?”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXI

  GOLD SEEKERS

  Puzzled, but watchful and alert, De Launay saw her retreating, sensing the terrible change that had come over her.

  “Yes, I am Louisiana,” he said. “What is the matter?”

  In answer she laughed, while one hand went to the breast of her shirtwaist and the other reached behind her, groping for something as she paced backward. Like a cameo in chalk her features were set and the writhing flames in her hair called up an image of Medusa. There was no change in expression, but through her parted lips broke a low laugh, terrible in its utter lack of feeling.

  “And I have for my husband—Louisiana! Quelle farce!”

  The hand at her breast was withdrawn and in it fluttered the yellow paper that Wilding had brought from Maryville to Wallace’s ranch. She flung it toward him, and as he stooped to pick it up, her groping hand fell on the pistol resting on the upturned log at the side of the bunk. She drew it around in front of her, dropped the holster at her side and snapped the safety down. Her thumb rested on the hammer and she stood still, tensely waiting.

  De Launay read the notice of reward swiftly and looked up. His face was stern, but otherwise expressionless.

  “Well?” he demanded, his eyes barely resting on the pistol before they swept to meet her own blazing gaze. There was no depth to her eyes now. Instead they seemed to be fire surrounded by black rims.

  “You have read—murderer!”

  “I have read it.” De Launay’s voice was like his face, and in
both appeared a trace of contempt.

  “What have you to say before I kill you?”

  “That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it,” answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.

  The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.

  A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.

  Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:

  “Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?”

  In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.

  “Just a minute, mad’mo’selle! I’m comin’ a-runnin’.”

  He stamped into his boots and flung the door open, disheveled, shirt open at the neck. Astonished, he took in the strange attitudes of the others.

  “What’s the answer?” he asked. “What was it you wanted, ma’am?”

  Solange turned to him, her grief-ridden face stony in its hopelessness.

  “Monsieur, you are my friend?”

  “For mayhem, manslaughter or murder,” he answered at once. “What’s wanted?”

  “Then—will you take this pistol, and kill that man for me?”

 

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