CHAPTER VIII: A GANG OF ENEMIES
The miner waited, leaning against the desk. His eyes had followed theslender figure moving after the rotund Timmons up the uncarpeted stairsuntil it had vanished amid the shadows of the second story. He smiledquietly in imagination of her first astonished view of the interior ofroom eighteen, and recalled to mind a vivid picture of itsadornments--the bare wood walls, the springless bed, the crack-nosedpitcher standing disconsolate in a blue wash-basin of tin; the littleround mirror in a once-gilt frame with a bullet-hole through itscentre, and the strip of dingy rag-carpet on the floor--all thissuddenly displayed by the yellowish flame of a small hand-lamp leftsitting on the window ledge.
Timmons came down the stairs, and bustled in back of the desk, eager toask questions.
"Lady a friend o' yours, Jim?" he asked. "If I'd a knowed she wuscomin' I'd a saved a better room."
"I have never seen her until to-night, Pete. She got off the train,and Carson asked me to escort her up-town--it was dark, you know. Howdid she like the palatial apartment?"
"Well, she didn't say nothin'; just sorter looked around. I reckonshe's a good sport, all right. What do ye suppose she's come yere for?"
"Not the slightest idea; I take it that's her business."
"Sure; but a feller can't help wonderin', can he? Donovan," he mused,peering at the name; "that's Irish, I take it--hey?"
"Suspiciously so; you are some detective, Pete. I'll give you anotherclue--her eyes are Irish grey."
He sauntered across to the stove, and stood looking idly at thecard-players, blue wreaths of tobacco smoke circling up from the bowlof his pipe. Some one opened the street door, letting in a babel ofnoise, and walked heavily across the office floor. Westcott turnedabout to observe the newcomer. He was a burly, red-faced man, who hadevidently been drinking heavily, yet was not greatly under theinfluence of liquor, dressed in a checked suit of good cut and fashion,but hardly in the best of taste. His hat, a Stetson, was pushed backon his head, and an unlighted cigar was clinched tightly between histeeth. He bore all the earmarks of a commercial traveller of a certainsort--a domineering personality, making up by sheer nerve what he mightlack in brains. But for his words the miner would have given thefellow no further thought.
"Say, Timmons," he burst forth noisily, and striding over to the desk,"the marshal tells me a dame blew in from New York to-night--is sheregistered here?"
The landlord shoved the book forward, with one finger on the lastsignature.
"Yep," he said shortly, "but she ain't the one you was lookin' for--Iasked her that, furst thing."
"Stella Donovan--huh! That's no name ever I heard; what's she looklike?"
"Like a lady, I reckon; I ain't seen one fer quite a spell now."
"Dark or light?"
"Waal, sorter medium, I should say; brown hair with a bit o' red in it,an' a pair o' grey eyes full of fun--some girl, to my notion."
The questioner struck his fist on the wood sharply.
"Well, what the devil do you suppose such a woman has come to this holeclear from New York for, Timmons? What's her game, anyhow?"
"Blessed if I know," and the proprietor seated himself on a high stool."I didn't ask no questions like that; maybe the gent by the stove theremight give yer all the information yer want. He brought her up fromthe dapoo, an' kin talk English. Say, Jim, this yere is a short hornfrum New York, named Beaton, an' he seems ter be powerfully interestedin skirts--Beaton, Mr. Jim Westcott."
The two men looked at each other, the miner stepping slightly forward,and knocking the ashes out of his pipe. Beaton laughed, assuming asemblance of good nature.
"My questions were prompted solely by curiosity," he explained,evidently not wholly at ease. "I was expecting a young woman, andthought this new arrival might prove to be my friend."
"Hardly," returned Westcott dryly. "As the landlord informed you, MissDonovan is a lady."
If he expected this shot to take effect he was disappointed, for thegrin never left Beaton's face.
"Ah, a good joke; a very good joke, indeed. But you misunderstand;this is altogether a business matter. This young woman whom I expectis coming here on a mining deal--it is not a love affair at all, Iassure you."
Westcott's eyes sparkled, yet without merriment.
"Quite pleased to be so assured," he answered carelessly. "In whatmanner can I satisfy your curiosity? You have already been informed, Ibelieve, that the person relative to whom you inquire is a Miss StellaDonovan, of New York; that she has the appearance and manners of alady, and possesses brown hair and grey eyes. Is there anything more?"
"Why, no--certainly not."
"I thought possibly you might care to question me regarding myacquaintance with the young woman?" Westcott went on, his voicehardening slightly. "If so, I have not the slightest objection totelling you that it consists entirely of acting as her escort from thestation to the hotel. I do not know why she is here, how long sheintends staying, or what her purpose may be. Indeed, there is only onefact I do know which may be of interest to you."
Beaton, surprised by the language of the other, remained silent, hisface turning purple, as a suspicion came to him that he was being madea fool of.
"It is this, my friend--who she is, what she is, and why she happens tobe here, is none of your damn business, and if you so much as mentionher name again in my presence you are going to regret it to your dyingday. That's all."
Beaton, glancing about at the uplifted faces of the card-players, choseto assume an air of indifference, which scarcely accorded with theanger in his eyes.
"Ah, come now," he blurted forth, "I didn't mean anything; there's noharm done--let's have a drink, and be friends."
Westcott shook his head.
"No, I think not," he said slowly. "I'm not much of a drinking manmyself, and when I do I choose my own company. But let me tell yousomething, Beaton, for your own good. I know your style, and you aremighty apt to get into trouble out here if you use any Bowery tactics."
"Bowery tactics!"
"Yes; you claim to live in New York, and you possess all the earmarksof the East-Side bad man. There is nothing keeping you now fromroughing it with me but the sight of this gun in my belt, and asuspicion in your mind that I may know how to use it. That suspicionis correct. Moreover, you will discover this same ability more or lessprevalent throughout this section. However, I am not looking fortrouble; I am trying to avoid it. I haven't sought your company; I donot want to know you. Now you go back to your bar-room where you willfind plenty of your own kind to associate with. It's going to bedangerous for you to hang around here any longer."
Beaton felt the steady eyes upon him, but was carrying enough liquor tomake him reckless. Still his was naturally the instinct of the NewYork gunman, seeking for some adventure. He stepped backward, feigninga laugh, watchful to catch Westcott off his guard.
"All right, then," he said, "I'll go get the drink; you can't bluff me."
Westcott's knowledge of the class alone brought to him the man'spurpose. Beaton's hand was in the pocket of his coat, and, as heturned, apparently to leave the room, the cloth bulged. With one leapforward the miner was at his throat. There was a report, a flash offlame, the speeding bullet striking the stove, and the next instantBeaton, his hand still helplessly imprisoned within the coat-pocket,was hurled back across the card-table, the players scattering to getout of the way. All the pent-up dislike in Westcott's heart foundexpression in action; the despicable trick wrought him to a suddenfury, yet even then there came to him no thought of killing the fellow,no memory even of the loaded gun at his hip. He wanted to choke him,strike him with his hands.
"You dirty coward," he muttered fiercely. "So you thought the pockettrick was a new one out here, did you? Come, give the gun up! Oh! sothere is some fight left in you? Then let's settle it here."
It was a struggle between two big, strong men--the one desperate,unscrupulous, brutal; the other angry
enough, but retainingself-control. They crashed onto the floor, Westcott still retainingthe advantage of position, and twice he struck, driving his clenchedfist home. Suddenly he became aware that some one had jerked hisrevolver from its holster, and, almost at the same instant a hard handgripped the neck-band of his shirt and tore him loose from Beaton.
"Here, now--enough of that, Jim," said a voice sternly, and his handsarose instinctively as he recognised the gleam of two drawn weaponsfronting him. "Help Beaton up, Joe. Now, look yere, Mr. BullyWestcott," and the speaker shook his gun threateningly. "As ithappens, you have jumped on a friend o' ours, an' we naturally proposeto take a hand in this game--you know me!"
Westcott nodded, an unpleasant smile on his lips.
"I do, Lacy," he said coolly, "and that if there is any dirty workgoing on in this camp, it is quite probable you and your gang are init. So, this New Yorker is a protege of yours?"
"That's none of your business; we're here for fair play."
"Since when? Now listen; you've got me covered, and that is my gunwhich Moore has in his hand. I cannot fight you alone and unarmed; butI can talk yet."
"I reckon yer can, if that's goin' ter do yer eny good."
"So the La Rosita Mining Company is about to be revived, is it?Eastern capital becoming interested. I've heard rumours of that for aweek past. What's the idea? struck anything?"
Lacy, a long, rangy fellow, with a heavy moustache, and a scar over oneeye, partially concealed by his hat brim, grinned at the others asthough at a good joke.
"No, nuthin' particular as yet," he answered; "but you hev', an' Ireckon thet's just about as good. Tryin' ter keep it dark, wasn't yer?Never even thought we'd caught on."
"Oh, yes, I did; you flatter yourselves. I caught one of yourstool-pigeons up the gulch yesterday, and more than ten days ago Mooreand Edson made a trip into my tunnel while I happened to be away; theyforgot to hide their trail. I knew what you were up to, and you canall of you look for a fight."
"When your partner gets out here, I suppose," sneered Lacy.
"He'll be here."
"Oh, will he? Well, he's a hell of a while coming. You wired him amonth ago, and yer've written him twice since. Oh, I've got the caseson you, all right, Westcott. I know you haven't got a cent left to goon with, and nowhere to get eny except through him." He laughed."Ain't that right? Well, then, yer chances look mighty slim ter mejust at present, ol'-timer. However, there's no fight on yet; will yerbehave yerself, an' let this man Beaton alone if I hand yer back yergun?"
"There is no choice left me."
"Sure; that's sensible enough; give it to him, Moore."
He broke the chamber, shaking the cartridges out into his palm; thenhanded the emptied weapon over to Westcott. His manner was purposelyinsulting, but the latter stood with lips firmly set, realising hisposition.
"Now, then, go on over thar an' sit down," continued Lacy. "Maybe, ifyer wait long enough, that partner o' yours might blow in. I got somecuriosity myself as to why that girl showed up ter-night under yerguidance, an' why yer so keen ter fight about her, Jim; but I reckonwe'll clear that up ter-morrow without makin' yer talk."
"You mean to question Miss Donovan?"
"Hell, no; just keep an eye on her. 'Tain't likely she's in Haskelljust fer the climate. Come on, boys, let's liquor. Big Jim Westcotthas his claws cut, and it's Beaton's turn to spend a little."
Westcott sat quietly in the chair as they filed out; then took the pipefrom his pocket and filled it slowly. He realised his defeat, hishelplessness, but his mind was already busy with the future.
Timmons came out from behind the desk a bit solicitous.
"Hurt eny?" he asked. "Didn't wing yer, or nuthin'?"
"No; the stove got the bullet. He shot through his pocket."
"Whut's all the row about?"
"Oh, not much, Timmons; this is my affair," and Westcott lit his pipewith apparent indifference. "Lacy and I have got two mining claimstapping the same lead, that's all. There's been a bit o' feelingbetween us for some time. I reckon it's got to be fought out, now."
"Then yer've really struck ore?"
"Yes."
"And the young woman? Hes she got enything ter do with it?"
"Not a thing, Timmons; but I want to keep her out of the hands of thatbunch. Give me a lamp and I'll go up-stairs and think this game out."
The Strange Case of Cavendish Page 8