by Zane Grey
“Fresh meat? Lord, yes! We’ve been living on canned stuff. But ask Sydney here. She does the buying.”
“How about it, Miss Blair?” inquired Kalispel, easily. “Would you like a nice fat haunch of venison now an’ then?”
“So you intend making honest use of your one talent?” she said, in a level voice that irritated and mystified Kalispel. Why could she not be civil?
“Butcherin’, you mean,” rejoined Kalispel, in a voice as controlled as hers. “Shore. I’m gettin’ out of practice handlin’ guns. An’ sooner or later now I’m shore to buck into Borden or Lowrie—or Leavitt.”
She vibrated slightly to that, but her reply was an inscrutable gaze from eyes now shadowy and deep. Then she wheeled away from the rail.
Blair laughed, not without a tinge of bitterness. “Sydney’s testy these days, Kalispel. No wonder. But you fetch the venison.”
“Thanks, Blair.” Then Kalispel bent close to whisper. “If you get up against it in any way—come to see me.”
Blair regarded him with haggard eyes. “Son, I’m ashamed to do it, after that spiel I gave you weeks ago.”
“Hell! never mind that. It served its turn....Are things goin’ bad?”
Blair whispered, after a glance back on the porch. “I’ve lost a good deal of money gambling.”
“Aw!” and Kalispel made a passionate gesture. “Pritchard?”
“Mostly to him. But others, also. I was way ahead at first. If I’d only had sense enough to quit then! Now I’ve got to play to get even.”
“You never will, Blair. Take a hunch from me. Never with this gang. They’ll fleece the skin off you.”
“Fleece! Do you mean to imply the game is crooked?”
“Good Heavens, man! Don’t you know that?”
“No, I don’t. But by Heaven! I’ll watch them next time.” Blair appeared to be stubborn, somber, thick, and hard to reach. Kalispel had seen that change in hundreds of genial and wholesome men. It came from drink. Kalispel sustained a sudden sharp misgiving about Blair. So many Easterners were too soft to tackle the adversity of the West. Yet he was not a man who could be criticized. Kalispel thought rapidly.
“All right. I’ll watch them with you,” he replied, curtly, and turned to go.
“Hold on, Emerson,” called Blair, rising and taking Kalispel’s arm. “You won’t go in these gambling-halls on my account, will you?”
“I shore will. Sydney’s goin’ back on me is no reason for me to go back on you.”
“But, son, listen,” returned Blair, in distress. “Sure as you do that you’ll be using your gun again.”
“Like as not. Will that jar you?”
“Not by a damn sight!” retorted Blair. “I was thinking of... Never mind now. Anyway, I appreciate your friendship. And, by thunder! I think you have been unjustly maligned. They’ve all got you wrong, and that goes for my own daughter.”
He squeezed Kalispel’s arm and abruptly returned to the porch, turning at the steps to call back: “I’ll let you know when I’m going to buck the tiger again.”
“Fine. I might set in the game myself,” called Kalispel, which remark was inspired by Sydney’s white form once more against the rail.
“Dad, is he persuading you to gamble?” came in Sydney’s high-pitched voice.
“Hell no!” rasped Blair. “He’s been trying to stop me. That boy is the only friend we’ve made. You don’t savvy the West. You don’t appreciate that cowboy. You’ve allowed your absurd squeamishness and that blighter Leavitt——”
Kalispel passed on out of hearing. He would like to have heard Sydney’s reply to that last reproach of her father. Kalispel found his blood racing unwontedly and a choking sensation in his throat. He had been responsible for getting the Blairs into this unhappy situation. What would be the end?
He went downtown. Thunder City was having its supper hour; nevertheless, that in no wise detracted from the appearance of activity. The yellow lights of the main street flared brightly; it was crowded with moving figures; music and laughter vied with the hum of conversation. The saloons were full of drinkers, loungers, miners selling and buying claims, gamblers on the lookout for prey, adventurers of every type.
Kalispel started in to make a round of all the stores, halls, resorts, houses, on the street. He took supper in the third place, a restaurant of pretensions, newly started. There were several women present, not of the dance-hall stripe, and one of them, young, handsome, richly clad, manifested interest in Kalispel, and bowed to him with the freedom prevalent in the mining-camp. He doffed his sombrero and approached her table.
“I reckon you ladies are shore lost here in Thunder City,” he said, with his winning smile.
“We would not have missed it for the world,” returned the handsome young woman. The other two smiled their corroboration and frankly flattered him with their glances. The man accompanying them was obviously not a mining-man. He said they were travelers going home from California and had not been able to resist the lure of a gold stampede.
“Did you enjoy the ride in?” queried Kalispel, of the youngest woman.
“It was terrible, but wonderful,” she replied, enthusiastically. “We rode, walked, fell off, and rode again.”
“An’ now you’re here—what?”
“I’d like to stay,” she said, frankly.
“Wal, you’d shore be an asset to Thunder City,” drawled Kalispel, admiringly. “No trouble drawin’ yourself a husband! Now if you’re lookin’ for one I’d——”
They interrupted him with merry laughter, in which their escort joined.
“The delightful simplicity and suddenness of you Westerners!” exclaimed the pretty one. “You don’t look like the rest of these miners, though.”
“I’m no miner,” rejoined Kalispel, in his coolest, laziest voice, enjoying the incident hugely and playing up to it. “My name is Kalispel Emerson. Used to be a cowboy. Sorry to add, lady—just now a desperado.”
“Indeed? How thrilling!... So I have a proposal from a desperado? Are you one of those Mr. Leavitt said were to be run out of Thunder City—or hanged?”
“I reckon not, lady,” replied Kalispel, stiffening, and passed on, to their evident disappointment. He could not escape Leavitt’s name. Everywhere he went Leavitt somehow intruded upon every word.
Kalispel passed out upon his round of the street, with a consciousness that it did not require much to kindle the old spirit of fire. About the only thing that could save Leavitt and Borden and Lowrie from facing him soon was for the mountain to slide down and bury the gold camp. In the Dead Eye Saloon he ran straight into Lowrie, but saw that individual first.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” he said, with careless nonchalance that had a bite in it. “Are you still trailin’ Montana cowboys?”
“Howdy, Kalispel,” returned the other, gruffly. “No, I reckon not, so long as they keep the peace.”
“Wal, I’m not drinkin’ or gamblin’, these days.”
“What are you doin’? Look fit an’ pert to me. An’ prosperous, too.”
“Shore, I’m all three. Just hangin’ around for my brother to come. Then we’ll hunt for Sam, my other brother, who made this gold strike.”
“So I heard, Kalispel,” rejoined the sheriff, ponderingly. “You don’t look loco. But thet talk shore is.”
“Lowrie, you know damn well I wouldn’t make that claim if it wasn’t true,” snapped Kalispel, coldly, and backed out into the throng on the street.
He watched gambling games in several halls. Then he went into Bull Mecklin’s, reputed to be the toughest den in the gold-diggings; and was there invited by gamesters to join them. Kalispel smilingly responded that he hated to win money from anyone. And as he did not play or approach the bar he attracted the attention of the proprietor, a massive-headed, thick-necked man whose name fitted him. He gruffly asked Kalispel what he wanted there.
“I’m lookin’ for a man,” replied Kalispel, significantly, and was severely let alone after t
hat. Some one recognized him, however, and he heard the whisper: “Kalispel, Montana gun-slinger!”
Thunder City was a bonanza gold-strike, the scene of Idaho’s great stampede, and it was full of raw, bold characters, many of whom were dishonest; but it had nothing of the menace Kalispel had known in cattle towns of Wyoming and Montana. Here he was an object of curiosity, a notorious person to be let alone, a doubtful and sinister figure. Back there he would have been encountered in every saloon and gambling-hall by some hard-lipped youngster or lean-faced man who did not like the look of him or the way he packed his gun. Thunder City was new; it would grow wild if the gold lasted.
Finally Kalispel strolled into the most pretentious resort of the street, one that had just been erected and not yet named. It occupied the largest structure in the mining-town, a barnlike frame outside and a markedly contrasting gaudy interior. Music, gay voices, shrill mirth, clink of gold and crash of glass, a shuffle of rough boots—these united in a roar. Kalispel was surprised to run into the pretty little girl he had met in the Spread Eagle at Salmon.
“Howdy, Nugget,” he greeted her pleasantly. “What you doin’ away from Salmon. Did you shake the Spread Eagle?”
“Say, was I drunk when I met you—somewhere?” she asked, flippantly.
“You shore wasn’t. Why? That’s not flatterin’.”
“Because I wouldn’t forget a handsome gazabo like you. What’s your name?”
“Kalispel Emerson,” replied he, and related the incident of their meeting.
“Oh, I remember now. But you don’t look the same. Except your eyes....Struck it rich, I’ll bet. All spruced up, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked!—Say, boy, you’d better let me alone.”
“Don’t you like me, Nugget?”
“If I didn’t, would I give you a hunch?”
“Let’s dance. I reckon I’m rusty, but I shore used to be slick.”
They joined the whirling throng on the wide dancefloor, and they had not progressed far when she said: “You may be rusty, Kalispel, but you’re pretty good. My God! what a relief to be free of these clodhoppers, heavy with liquor, bearded and dirty!”
“Nugget, it struck me over in Salmon that you were too nice a kid for this dance-hall life.”
She looked up at him but made no reply.
“Who fetched you over here?” he went on, presently.
“I came with Borden’s outfit.”
“Borden? Oh yes! He ran the Spread Eagle over there. Is there anyone in this deal with him?”
“Say, are you pumping me?”
“Sounds like that, I reckon. But listen, an’ then tell me or not, as you like.” As they danced around he briefly related the part his brothers and he had played in the discovery of gold there in the valley, about his leaving with Jake and returning alone to find Sam gone, and the claim lost, his shooting of Selback and accusing of Leavitt.
“So you’re that fellow!” she whispered, excitedly. “You’re that bad hombre, then? You look it, Kalispel....Well, go ahead and make love to me. It will make Rand Leavitt wild.”
“Ah-huh.—Is he sweet on you?”
“I wouldn’t call it sweet. He has reasons of his own for not being open about it. And I don’t mind telling you that he’s Borden’s partner here, on the sly, too.”
“Wal, thanks, Nugget. One more question. But don’t be hurt even if you won’t answer.... Is this man Borden responsible for your being here?”
“No. I can’t lay that to him exactly. I have to earn my living. But he’s a slave-driver. Ask the other girls.”
“Nugget, suppose you let me be your friend.”
“You mean make love to me?” The bitterness in her voice touched a deeper cord in Kalispel’s kindly nature.
“I don’t want to be that kind of friend, Nugget. I can be a better one. I admit, though, I’d shore have made love to you if my heart hadn’t been broken. You’re as pretty as the dickens. An’ nice. I like you.”
“Well, you’re a queer duck. But I like you, too. And you’re on. I won’t promise, though, not to fall in love with you.”
“I’ll risk that, Nugget.”
“You’ll risk more. It’s bound to look like you were drinking and making up with me. And if you get—well, too thick with me, Borden will rare. And so will Leavitt.”
“I reckon. Wal, IVe made the offer.”
“You’re a deep one. What’s your game?”
“Didn’t I confide in you—trust you?”
“So you did,” she returned, wonderingly. “I’ve got a hunch—Kalispel, I’m yours for jest or earnest....Say, it’s nice to dance with you. You’re clean and decent.”
“I’ll stick with you all evenin’. We’ll pour the drinks on the floor—Reckon it’s awful nice to dance with you, too, Nugget.”
CHAPTER
* * *
7
JAKE EMERSON’S case against the Leavitt Mining Company was scheduled to be heard on the night of the very day he got back to the valley, a gaunt, haggard ghost of the man who had left there two months before in the prime of life and ambition. It was significant to Kalispel that Judge Leavitt, furious at the claim, rushed the hearing of the case.
The law of the mining-camps was that in case of a dispute over a gold claim as to ownership, the case was to be heard before the judge in the presence of the other miners, all of whom were to listen to the testimony and then vote. Whichever claimant received the most votes got the gold claim.
Borden’s dance-hall, being the most commodious place in the camp for a courtroom, was selected for the trial. This was to be its initiation in such proceedings.
Even without much time for advertising, the case attracted a throng. Kalispel had personally notified hundreds of miners to be present. He realized that Jake and he had no chance of winning the claim. But Kalispel’s purpose was to establish a contest of Leavitt’s right to the property.
A thousand and more miners assembled in the street before Borden’s dance-hall. Less than a hundred of these were admitted, however, and that augmented the growing curiosity in the case.
“Fellars,” sang out one man, “thar’s room for three or four hundred of us in thet hall, packed like sardines.”
“Wal, every consarned one of us has a right to vote,” said another.
“Wake up, tenderfeet,” called a cool ringing voice from the shadows. “This case is fixed.”
That voice belonged to Kalispel, who had remained outside to see how many miners came and what their comment might be. Then he pounded to be admitted. He required only a general survey of those present to be assured that very few friendly to him were there. Blair had promised to come, but could not be located. Lowrie, the sheriff, the two deputies, all armed, stood conspicuously before the orchestra platform of the hall, where at a table sat the judge and his recorder.
Leavitt, pale and stern, stood up and rapped on the table.
“Gentlemen,” he began in a loud voice that carried out of the open windows into the thronged street, “the case at hand is that of one Jake Emerson, claimant, and the Leavitt Mining Company, defendant. The property contested is the quartz lode, claim Number One....We will hear Emerson’s argument.”
When the judge sat down Jake came forward. His appearance carried conviction of two facts—first that he had endured almost mortal illness and the privation and toil of a desert wanderer; and secondly that his white face and eyes of fire, his heavy irresistible strides forward, pronounced him a formidable person absolutely sure of the right of his cause. He halted in front of the platform, and after a long steady stare at Leavitt, he turned to face the hall.
“Men, you are all miners like myself,” he began, in sonorous voice. “An’ if you are honest, an’ live by the rule ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ I could ask no more than to be judged by you.”
“I arrived in Idaho ’most a year ago, cornin’ from Montana with my elder brother Sam, an’ my younger brother Lee, who is standin’ there. Sam an’ me had
been prospectin’ for years an’ knew the minin’ game from A to Z. Our young brother, however, was a cowboy. He took to the wild life of the range, an’ as he survived one hard outfit after another he earned the name Kalispel Emerson, gunman, bad hombre, rustler. He may deserve the first, because the fact thet he is alive today proves it. But the other names are undeserved. The fact thet Sam an’ I believed in the boy’s honesty is responsible for our bringin’ him with us to Idaho.
“We prospected the Lemhi Range before we wandered over here into the Saw Tooths. It was on the second of April, as I figgered out afterwards, thet we dropped down over the south siope into this valley.... Now, men, I can prove thet we came, though not the date. As I’ve only just returned here today, so tuckered out thet I fell in my tracks, it stands to reason thet I couldn’t have seen any of the things I’ll enumerate.... Some of you miners will remember signs of an old beaver-dam on the far side of the creek, where the little brook curves in....There used to be some rings of ground, earth banked up in circles. These were made by the Sheep-Eater Indians who camped here many years ago....There used to be a pine tree across the creek on the high ridge, an’ it forked at the trunk so low down you could step up in it....”
“Thet big pine furnished lumber for my cabin,” interrupted a miner. “I cut it down myself.”
“Silence!” ordered Judge Leavitt, pounding the table. “And, Emerson, you confine yourself to your claim. We haven’t time for all this rigamarole.”
“The first night we camped here we heard the old mountain thunder,” continued Jake. “An’ the next day we struck gold. I took a hundred an’ more pans of dust an’ nuggets out of the creek. An’ before sunset Sam came staggerin’ into camp with a chunk of quartz showin’ heavy veins of gold. He had uncovered a ledge thet carried a quartz lead.
“We made our plan. Sam was to stay here to guard our claim. Lee an’ I were to go out. I was to take the quartz to prove our claim an’ sell a half interest for one hundred thousand dollars. Lee was to pack supplies back into the valley....We left, workin’ up over the pass at the east end of the valley, an’ we crossed the Middle Fork, an’ got to Challis. There, as we decided it took so many days to get out, an’ Sam would soon be needin’ supplies, Lee left Challis for Salmon, where he was to outfit an’ go back over the trail we had made. I was to go to Boise an’ make our deal.