Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (2 page)

 
          
“I
pass,” Bixby replied. “But if you think minin’ means easy money you got another
guess comin’. Now you tell me this: why is it that a fella can never keep coin
he gets easy?”

 
          
“I
pass too,” the cowboy smiled, adding reflectively, “That ol’ mosshead is
shorely gettin’ this herd on the run; yo’re liable to lose trade.”

 
          
“An’
it’s bad enough a’ready—if it gets wuss I’ll have to pack an’ follow my custom,”

 
          
Bixby
grunted, and emboldened by the visitor’s apparent friendliness, “You thinkin’ o’
joinin’ the nugget-hunters?” The question was a flagrant breach of Western
etiquette, as the saloonkeeper was well aware, but the other did not resent it.

 
          
“Why,
I ain’t made any plans—yet,” he drawled. “Fact is, I’m lookin’ for a coupla
fellows an’ Deadwood might be a likely place.”

 
          
“Friends
o’ yores, mebbe,” Bixby ventured.

 
          
The
cowboy’s expression
hardened,
and his eyes grew bleak.
“I’ll be pleased to see them,” he said, so grimly that the saloonkeeper did not
pursue the topic.

 
          
A
moment later a tousle-headed youngster flung himself from the bare back of a
sweating pony, thrust open the swing-door of the saloon and yelled:

 
          
“Stage
is a-comin’—there’s a gal aboard—a pretty gal—an’ ol’ Three-finger Ike is
sober.”

 
          
Wayside,
lying well south of the main Overland Trail to the West and forty miles from
the nearest settlement, was difficult of access. Most of its visitors arrived
by freight-wagon or on horseback rather than wait for the stagecoach, which, at
intervals of weeks, called there on its way to northern Kansas. The arrival of
the vehicle was an event and always a sufficient excuse for the male population
to gather at the Pioneer.

 
          
A
shrill whoop emptied the bar like magic, even the indifferent young cowboy
joining the group outside. From a billowing cloud of dust the unwieldy
conveyance, drawn by six scampering mules, emerged, and with a final crack of
the long-lashed whip the driver pulled them to a stop, set his brake, looped
the reins over the iron hook at his side, and climbed clumsily down from his
perch.

 
          
“Howdy,
folks,” he boomed, a hen came the customary query and invariable answer which
had earned him his nickname. “Waal, Bixby, I don’t mind if I do; just three
fingers.” Then, in answer to a question:

 
          
“Yeah,
I got a lady passenger—sweet gal too, travellin’ alone, an’ I had to hobble my
tongue some. Reckon them mules got notions at first, but that whip o’ mine
speaks mighty plain.”

 
          
“Didn’t
figure on seem’ you, Ike,” Bixby remarked. “Shore reckoned you’d be streakin’
for the new goldfields.”

 
          
“Plenty
is—the Overland is black with ‘em,” the stagedriver replied. “I’m stayin’ with
my job; she pays steady wages an’ I like my meals reg’lar.”

 
          
“By
all accounts, it’s a rich strike,” Preedy put in.

 
          
“Hell,
did you ever hear o’ one that warn’t—at first?” Ike said. “‘Sides, the Black
Hills is Injun country—Sioux at that; I ain’t goin’ to resk my scalp.” A cackle
of mirth greeted the remark, for most of those present knew that the speaker’s
cranium had no more hair than an egg.

 
          
Meanwhile
the occupants of the coach had alighted, glad to leave the cramped,
uncomfortable conveyance in which they had jolted and bumped over interminable
miles of rough trail.

 
          
They
presented a curious contrast. The first to emerge was a square, stocky man in
the thirties, with enormous shoulders, long arms, and coarse, bloated features
upon which a scowl seemed to be the natural expression. A straggling black
moustache only accentuated the cruel lines of his mouth. His garb was that of
the country, shirt open at the throat, disclosing a hairy chest, trousers
stuffed into boot-tops, coat slung over one arm, and a heavy revolver strapped
about his middle. Altogether, Wayside summed up, an ugly-looking customer.

 
          
He
was followed by a tall, slim cowboy whose plump, youthful face and frank brown
eyes were those of one who had nothing to hide. Battered Stetson in hand, he
held open the door for the third passenger, whose appearance was greeted with a
low hum of admiration.

 
          
“Three-finger
may be able to describe mules pretty good but
females is
out of his class,” one of the older inhabitants remarked disdainfully. “‘Sweet’
don’t begin to tell about her.” And, in truth, stepping down from the drab,
clumsy vehicle, the girl—she appeared to be still in her ‘teens—made a charming
picture. Her simple black gown set off the slimness of her young body, and
beneath the broad brim of a soft felt hat
,short
curly
hair of the palest gold peeped out. The deep blue eyes were wide-spaced, the
nose short and straight, the mouth firm.

 
          
At
the moment she was evidently weary, and somewhat disturbed by the interest she
was creating. Nevertheless, she thanked the cowboy and turned to smile bravely
at the onlookers, half of whom immediately became her slaves, eager to serve
her. But while they were thinking about it, Paul Lesurge acted. Three quick
strides and he
was
before her, bowing, hat in hand.

 
          
“Let
me be the first to welcome you to Wayside, ma’am,” he said. “If I can be of any
service to you, please command me. I am Paul Lesurge.” The name, of course,
conveyed nothing to her, but his respectful manner and the contrast of his
appearance with that of the other citizens produced the effect he intended. Her
eyes studied him steadily for a moment, and then she smiled, holding out a slim
hand.

 
          
“It
is very kind of you, sir,” she said. “My name is Mary
Ducane,
and my business here—”

 
          
“Must
certainly wait until you have washed and rested,” he interposed quickly. “You
see, I know what a journey by stage means.”

 
          
“I
do feel—grubby,” she confessed.

 
          
“You
don’t look it,” he told her, so warmly that she flushed a little. “Now, let me
take you to our one hotel; it is rough, but the woman who runs it is clean and
capable, and will look after you. Is that your baggage?” He pointed to a
leather grip which the tall cowboy was holding, evidently waiting for the
conversation to finish. His good-humoured face was now disfigured with a frown
which deepened when—the girl having nodded her pretty head—the interfering
stranger calmly relieved him of his burden, saying:

 
          
“I’ll
take charge of that, my friend.” The impudence of the act proved too much for
the cowboy’s control. With a threatening gesture towards the gun on his hip he
blurted out:

 
          
“Yu
make friends mighty rapid, mister, don’t yu? What right yu got to head in
thisaway?”

 
          
The
older man surveyed him with cool disdain. “Gentlemen do not quarrel in the
presence of a lady,” he chided. “We will discuss the matter later, if you
please.” Which grandiloquent reply, as the speaker knew well, only added fuel
to the fire of resentment already burning in the young man’s
breast.
It was the girl who averted the storm.

 
          
“Thank
you for your kindness and attention on the journey,” she said, holding out her
hand.

 
          
The
cowboy’s face became a picture of discomfort. “It ain’t worth mentionin’,” he
managed to say, and then, as his big paw engulfed her fingers, “Any time yu
need help I’ll come a-runnin’
. ”
I’m shore obliged,”
she smiled, mimicking
his own
manner of speech. “But
you mustn’t be angry with others who wish to aid me.” He watched as they went
along the rude board sidewalk, his heart in his eyes, and a curse on his lips
as he saw the man who had so neatly cut him out stand aside to let his
companion enter Wayside’s one hotel. A jeering, familiar voice brought him back
to earth, and he turned to find the third passenger.

 
          
“Well,
cowboy, that dame is certainly a fast worker,” the fellow grinned. “We was
gettin’ along first-rate till you joined the ‘jerky’ an’ then I got the glass
eye. Now
it’s
yore turn, but she won’t shake Paul that
easy.”

 
          
“Yu
know that man?” the cowboy asked.

 
          
“Know
Paul Lesurge? I’ll say I do,” was the reply. “Why, I’m here to meet him—we’re
like brothers, me an’ Paul. He’s a great fella, an’ style?—well, you seen for
yoreself.” He laughed evilly. “So you can say good-bye to yore Lulu, cowboy, ‘less
yo’re willin’ to take Paul’s leavin’s”

 
          
“Shut
yore rank mouth, yu toad,” the young fellow flamed out, “or I’ll close it for
yu.”

 
          
The
short man grinned provokingly—he was of the type who would tease a tied dog—and
he did not believe this raw youth to be dangerous.

 
          
“Serious,
was you?” he fleered. “Well, she’s a pretty piece, an’ I could be that
myself
for mebbe a month, an’ then He was not allowed to
finish. Two long steps brought the cowboy within reach and his right fist
flashed out to the jaw. There was no science in the blow, but it had all the
power of a muscular young body behind it and the fury of one who was seething
with rage. Entirely unprepared, the ruffian rocked on his heels and then
crashed to the ground; he might have been kicked by a mule. Standing over him,
pale with passion, the boy had a last word:

 
          
“Mention
that young lady again in my hearin’ an’ I’ll tear yu apart.” He turned to walk
away and in an instant the stricken man was on his feet, his gun out, pointing
at the broad back so carelessly presented to him. A movement of his finger and the
murderous missile would have sped, but a warning voice intervened:

 
          
“I
wouldn’t,” it said. Though the words were quietly spoken, they conveyed a
threat which the killer dared not ignore.

 
          
The
man with the gun stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw a group of citizens
interestedly watching the fracas, and apart from them, a black-haired cowboy,
lounging easily against a post some ten paces distant, a six-shooter levelled
from his right hip. A tiny tendril of smoke curled up from the cigarette
between his lips.

 
          
“Face
me,”
came
the order. “I never shoot a fella in the
back unless I
has
to.”

 
          
“What
right you got to interfere?” the other blustered, but he made the movement.

 
          
There
was no mirth in the cowboy’s grin. “Yu’ve got yore gun out an’ it’s just about
as far from yu to me as from me to you,” he said. “If yu wanta argue …” The
bully had no such wish; he did not like the look of this third party in the
affair. Though he was little older in years than the other cowboy, there was an
air of cool confidence about this one which spoke of experience.

 
          
He
did not know it, but the spectators were in agreement with him; this sinister,
granite-faced figure was entirely different from the smiling, good-humoured
puncher they had swapped jokes with in the saloon.

 
          
“I
ain’t got
no
quarrel with you,” the squat man evaded. “No,
I’m facin’ yu,”
came
the swift retort, and then, “Well,
we aim to please.” The other cowboy had turned and watched the scene with an
interest natural in one who had escaped death by the merest chance. He now came
striding back. The black-haired one grinned at him.

 
          
“Pull
yore gun an’ stand right here,” he said, pointing to the post he had been using
as a support, and when this had been done, he stepped aside. “All set,
Angel-face,” he went on.