* * * * *
The following morning, he picketed his burros on a small meadow near the spring, cleaned the spring itself, and prepared a lunch. Then he removed his shirt, drew on a pair of gloves, and walked to the face of the cliff. Yet even then he did not begin, knowing that upon this habit of care and deliberation might depend not only his success in the venture but life itself. He gathered flat stones and began building his walk. When you start moving, he told himself, you’ll have to be fast.
Finally, and with infinite care, he began tapping at the quartz, enlarging cracks with the pick, removing fragments, then prying loose whole chunks. He did not swing the pick but used it as a lever. The quartz was rotten, and a man might obtain a considerable amount by this method of picking or even pulling with the hands. When he had a sack filled with the richest quartz, he carried it over his path to a safe place beyond the shadow of the tower. Returning, he tamped a few more flat rocks into his path and began on the second sack. He worked with greater care than was, perhaps, essential. He was not and had never been a gambling man.
In the present operation, he was taking a carefully calculated risk in which every eventuality had been weighed and judged. He needed the money, and he intended to have it; he had a good idea of his chances of success, but knew that his gravest danger was to become too greedy, too much engrossed in his task.
Dragging the two sacks down the hill, he found a flat block of stone and with a singlejack proceeded to break up the quartz. It was a slow and hard job, but he had no better means of extracting the gold. After breaking or crushing the quartz, much of the gold could be separated by a knife blade, for it was amazingly concentrated. With water from the spring, Wetherton panned the remainder until it was too dark to see.
* * * * *
Out of his blankets by daybreak, he ate breakfast and completed the extraction of the gold. At a rough estimate, his first day’s work would run to $400. He made a cache for the gold sack and took the now-empty ore sacks and climbed back to the tower.
The air was clear and fresh, the sun warm after the chill of night, and he liked the feel of the pick in his hands.
Laura and Tommy awaited him back in Horsehead, and, if he was killed here, there was small chance they would ever know what had become of him. But he did not intend to be killed. The gold he was extracting from this rock was for them and not for himself.
It would mean an easier life in a larger town, a home of their own, and the things to make the home a woman desires. And it meant an education for Tommy. For himself all he needed was the thought of that home to return to, his wife and son—and the desert itself. And one was as necessary to him as the other.
The desert would be the death of him. He had been told that many times and did not need to be told, for few men knew the desert as he did. The desert was to him what an orchestra is to a fine conductor, what the human body is to a surgeon. It was his work, his life, and the thing he knew best. He always smiled when he looked first into the desert as he started a new trip. Would this be it?
The morning drew on, and he continued to work with an even-paced swing of the pick, a careful filling of the sack. The gold showed bright and beautiful in the crystalline quartz, which was so much more beautiful than the gold itself. From time to time as the morning drew on, he paused to rest and to breathe deeply of the fresh, clear air. Deliberately he refused to hurry.
* * * * *
For nineteen days, he worked tirelessly, eight hours at day at first, then lessening his hours to seven, and then to six. Wetherton did not explain to himself why he did this, but he realized it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay on the job. Again and again, he would walk away from the rock face on one excuse or another, and each time he would begin to feel his scalp prickle, his steps grow quicker, and each time he returned more reluctantly.
Three times, beginning on the 13th, again on the 17th, and finally on the 19th day, he heard movement within the tower. Whether that whispering in the rock was normal he did not know. Such a natural movement might have been going on for centuries. He only knew that it happened then, and each time it happened, a cold chill went along his spine.
His work had cut a deep notch at the base of the tower, such a notch as a man might make in felling a tree, but wider and deeper. The sacks of gold, too, were increasing. They now numbered seven, and their total would, he believed, amount to more than $5,000—probably nearer to $6,000. As he cut deeper into the rock, the vein was growing richer.
He worked on his knees now. The vein had slanted downward as he cut into the base of the tower, and he was all of nine feet into the rock with the great mass of it above him. If that rock gave way while he was working, he would be crushed in an instant, with no chance of escape. Nevertheless, he continued.
The change in the rock tower was not the only change, for he had lost weight, and he no longer slept well. On the night of the 20th day, he decided he had $6,000 and his goal would be $10,000. And the following day, the rock was the richest ever! As if to tantalize him into working on and on, the deeper he cut, the richer the ore became. By nightfall of that day, he had taken out more than $1,000.
Now the lust for the gold was getting into him, taking him by the throat. He was fascinated by the danger of the tower as well as the desire for the gold. Three more days to go—could he leave it then? He looked again at the tower and felt a peculiar sense of foreboding, a feeling that here he was to die, that he would never escape. Was it his imagination, or had the outer wall leaned a little more?
* * * * *
On the morning of the 22nd day, he climbed the fan over a path that use had built into a series of continuous steps. He had never counted those steps, but there must have been over 1,000 of them. Dropping his canteen into a shaded hollow and pick in hand, he started for the tower.
The forward tilt did seem somewhat more than before. Or was it the light? The crack that ran behind the outer wall seemed to have widened, and, when he examined it more closely, he found a small pile of freshly run silt near the bottom of the crack. So it had moved!
Wetherton hesitated, staring at the rock with wary attention. He was a fool to go back in there again. $7,000 was more than he had ever had in his life before, yet in the next few hours he could take out at least $1,000 more, and in the next three days he could easily have the $10,000 he had set for his goal.
He walked to the opening, dropped to his knees, and crawled into the narrowing, flat-roofed hole. No sooner was he inside than fear climbed up into his throat. He felt trapped, stifled, but he fought down the mounting panic and began to work. His first blows were so frightened and feeble that nothing came loose. Yet when he did get started, he began to work with a feverish intensity that was wholly unlike him.
When he slowed, and then stopped to fill his sack, he was gasping for breath, but despite his hurry, the sack was not quite full. Reluctantly he lifted his pick again, but before he could strike a blow, the gigantic mass above him seemed to creak like something tired and old. A deep shudder went through the colossal pile, and then a deep grinding that turned him sick with horror. All his plans for instant flight were frozen, and it was not until the groaning ceased that he realized he was lying on his back, breathless with fear and expectancy. Slowly he edged his way into the air and walked, fighting the desire to run away from the rock.
When he stopped near his canteen, he was wringing with cold sweat and trembling in every muscle. He sat down on the rock and fought for control. It was not until some twenty minutes had passed that he could trust himself to get to his feet.
Despite his experience, he knew that, if he did not go back now, he would never go. He had taken out but one sack for the day and wanted another. Circling the batholith, he examined the widening crack, endeavoring again, for the third time, to find another means of access to the vein.
The tilt of the outer wall was obvious, and it could stand no mo
re without toppling. It was possible that by cutting into the wall of the column and striking down, he might tap the vein at a safer point. Yet this added blow at the foundation would bring the tower nearer to collapse and render his other hole untenable. Even this new attempt would not be safe, although immeasurably more secure than the hole he had left. Hesitating, he looked back at the hole.
Once more? The ore was now fabulously rich, and the few pounds he needed to complete the sack he could get in just a little while. He stared at the black and undoubtedly narrower hole, then looked up at the leaning wall. He picked up his pick and, his mouth dry, started back, drawn by a fascination that was beyond all reason.
His heart pounding, he dropped to his knees at the tunnel face. The air seemed stifling, and he could feel his scalp tingling, but once he started to crawl, it was better. The face where he now worked was at least sixteen feet from the tunnel mouth. Pick in hand, he began to wedge chunks from their seat. The going seemed harder now, and the chunks did not come loose so easily. Above him, the tower made no sound. The crushing weight was now something tangible. He could almost feel it growing, increasing with every move of his. The mountain seemed resting on his shoulder, crushing the air from his lungs.
Suddenly he stopped. His sack almost full, he stopped and lay very still, staring up at the bulk of the rock above him.
No.
He would go no farther. Now he would quit. Not another sackful. Not another pound. He would go out now. He would go down the mountain without a backward look, and he would keep going. His wife waiting at home, little Tommy, who would run gladly to meet him—these were too much to gamble.
With the decision came peace, came certainty. He sighed deeply and relaxed, and then it seemed to him that every muscle in his body had been knotted with strain. He turned on his side and with great deliberation gathered his lantern, his sack, his hand pick.
He had won. He had defeated the crumbling tower; he had defeated his own greed. He backed easily, without the caution that had marked his earlier movements in the cave. His blind, trusting foot found the projecting rock, a piece of quartz that stuck out from the rough-hewn wall.
The blow was too weak, too feeble to have brought forth the reaction that followed. The rock seemed to quiver like the flesh of a beast when stabbed; a queer vibration went through that ancient rock, then a deep, gasping sigh.
He had waited too long!
Fear came swiftly in upon him, crowding him, while his body twisted, contracting into the smallest possible space. He tried to will his muscles to move beneath the growing sounds that vibrated through the passage. The whispers of the rock grew into a terrifying groan, and there was a rattle of pebbles. Then silence.
The silence was more horrifying than the sound. Somehow he was crawling, even as he expected the avalanche of gold to bury him. Abruptly his feet were in the open. He was out.
He ran without stopping, but behind him he heard a growing roar that he couldn’t outrace. When he knew from the slope of the land that he must be safe from falling rock, he fell to his knees. He turned and looked back. The muted, roaring sound, like thunder beyond mountains, continued, but there was no visible change in the tower. Suddenly, as he watched, the whole rock formation seemed to shift and tip. The movement lasted only seconds, but before the tons of rock had found their new equilibrium, his tunnel and the area around it had utterly vanished from sight.
When he could finally stand, Wetherton gathered up his sack of ore and his canteen. The wind was cool upon his face as he walked away, and he did not look back again.
Keep Travelin’, Rider
I
When Tack Gentry sighted the weather-beaten buildings of the G Bar, he touched spurs to the buckskin and the horse broke into a fast canter that carried the cowhand down the trail and around into the ranch yard. He swung down.
“Hey!” he yelled happily, grinning. “Is that all the welcome I get?”
The door pushed open and a man stepped out on the worn porch. The man had a stubble of beard and a drooping mustache. His blue eyes were small and narrow.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “And what do you want?”
“I’m Tack Gentry,” Tack said. “Where’s Uncle John?”
“I don’t know you,” the man said, “and I never heard of no Uncle John. I reckon you got onto the wrong spread, youngster. “
“Wrong spread?” Tack laughed. “Quit your funnin’! I helped build that house there, and built the corrals by my lonesome, while Uncle John was sick. Where is everybody?”
The man looked at him carefully and then lifted his eyes to a point beyond Tack. A voice spoke from behind the cowhand. “Reckon you been gone a while, ain’t you?”
Gentry turned. The man behind him was short, stocky, and blond. He had a wide, flat face, a small broken nose, and cruel eyes.
“Gone? I reckon, yes. I’ve been gone most of a year. Went north with a trail herd to Ellsworth, then took me a job as segundo on a herd movin’ to Wyoming.”
Tack stared around, his eyes alert and curious. There was something wrong here, something very wrong. The neatness that had been typical of Uncle John Gentry was gone. The place looked run-down, the porch was untidy, the door hung loosely on its hinges, even the horses in the corral were different.
“Where’s Uncle John?” Tack demanded again. “Quit stallin’!”
The blond man smiled, his lips parting over broken teeth and a hard, cynical light coming into his eyes. “If you mean John Gentry, who used to live on this place, he’s gone. He drawed on the wrong man and got himself killed.”
“What?” Tack’s stomach felt like he had been kicked. He stood there, staring. “He drew on somebody? Uncle John?” Tack shook his head. “That’s impossible. John Gentry was a Quaker. He never lifted a hand in violence against anybody or anything in his life. He never even wore a gun, never owned one.”
“I only know what they tell me,” the blond man said, “but we got work to do, and I reckon you better slope out of here. And,” he added grimly, “if you’re smart, you’ll keep right on goin’, clean out of the country!”
“What do you mean?” Tack’s thoughts were in a turmoil, trying to accustom himself to this change, wondering what could have happened, what was behind it.
“I mean you’ll find things considerably changed around here. If you decide not to leave,” he added, “you might ride into Sunbonnet and look up Van Hardin or Dick Olney and tell him I said to give you all you had comin’. Tell ’em Soderman sent you.”
“Who’s Van Hardin?” Tack asked. The name was unfamiliar.
“You been away, all right,” Soderman acknowledged. “Or you’d know who Van Hardin is. He runs this country. He’s the ramrod, Hardin is. Olney’s sheriff.”
Tack Gentry rode away from his home ranch with his thoughts in confusion. Uncle John killed in a gunfight? Why, that was out of reason! The old man wouldn’t fight. He never had and never would. And this Dick Olney was sheriff! What had become of Pete Liscomb? No election was due for another year, and Pete had been a good sheriff.
There was one way to solve the problem and get the whole story, and that was to circle around and ride by the London Ranch. Bill could give him the whole story, and, besides, he wanted to see Betty. It had been a long time.
The six miles to the headquarters of the London Ranch went by swiftly, yet, as Tack rode, he scanned the grassy levels along the Maravillas. There were cattle enough, more than he had ever seen on the old G Bar, and all of them wearing the G Bar brand.
He reined in sharply. What the...? Why, if Uncle John was dead, the ranch belonged to him! But if that was so, who was Soderman? And what were they doing on his ranch?
Three men were loafing on the wide verandah of the London ranch house when Tack rode up. All their faces were unfamiliar. He glanced warily from one to the other.
“Where’s Bill Lond
on?” he asked.
“London?” The man in the wide brown hat shrugged. “Reckon he’s to home, over in Sunbonnet Pass. He ain’t never over here.”
“This is his ranch, isn’t it?” Tack demanded.
All three men seemed to tense. “His ranch?” The man in the brown hat shook his head. “Reckon you’re a stranger around here. This ranch belongs to Van Hardin. London ain’t got a ranch. Nothin’ but a few acres back against the creek over to Sunbonnet Pass. He and that girl of his live there. I reckon, though,”—he grinned suddenly—“she won’t be there much longer. Hear tell she’s goin’ to work in the Longhorn dance hall.”
“Betty London? In the Longhorn?” Tack exclaimed. “Don’t make me laugh, partner! Betty’s too nice a girl for that! She wouldn’t....”
“They got it advertised,” the brown-hatted man said calmly.
* * * * *
An hour later a very thoughtful Tack Gentry rode up the dusty street of Sunbonnet. In that hour of riding he had been doing a lot of thinking, and he was remembering what Soderman had said. He was to tell Hardin or Olney that Soderman had sent him to get all that was coming to him. Suddenly that remark took on a new significance.
Tack swung down in front of the Longhorn. Emblazoned on the front of the saloon was a huge poster announcing that Betty London was the coming attraction, that she would sing and entertain at the Longhorn. Compressing his lips, Tack walked into the saloon.
Nothing was familiar except the bar and the tables. The man behind the bar was squat and fat, and his eyes peered at Tack from folds of flesh. “What’s it fur you?” he demanded.
“Rye,” Tack said. He let his eyes swing slowly around the room. Not a familiar face greeted him. Shorty Davis was gone. Nick Farmer was not around. These men were strangers, a tight-mouthed, hard-eyed crew.
Gentry glanced at the bartender. “Any ridin’ jobs around here? Driftin’ through, and thought I might like to tie in with one of the outfits around here.”
Golden Gunmen Page 2