Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (28 page)

 
          
“What
brought you to Deadwood? You care nothing for money.”

 
          
“Drop
a dime an’ watch me dive for it,” he bantered, but when she would not smile, he
added bluntly, “I came to find two men.”

 
          
“Friends?”

 
          
“I
wouldn’t call ‘em that,” was the ambiguous reply. Moved by an impulse he did
not attempt to analyse, he told her why he had become a wanderer in the West,
of the vow of vengeance one day to be fulfilled.1
She
listened with wide eyes. Death dealt swiftly as retribution for a wrong, or in
the heat of passion, she could comprehend, but this cold, relentless seeking
out appalled her.

 
          
“Suppose
you never find them?” she questioned.

 
          
“Then
they’ll be in, an’ I’ll be out o’ luck,” he said. “But you will have wasted
your life.”

 
          
“I
don’t figure it thataway; I’m livin’ an’ doin’ things. Right now I’m helping
Snowy to get a fortune.”

 
          
“And
Paul,” she prompted.

 
          
“Yeah,”
he said. “But I reckon yore brother can help hisself!” The bitter jest had
slipped out unawares and he was afraid she would resent it, but his
embarrassed
look only made her laugh.

 
          
“Never
mind, Jim,” she said. “I’ve no illusions about Paul; helping himself is one of
the things he does best.” Meanwhile, Paul Lesurge had been finding Mary a
rather inattentive companion. Gerry’s absence had been a blow; she wished—she
told herself—to escape from the false position in which pique had placed her.
There was too, more than a tinge of resentment in her attitude.
“Said he warn’t interested.”
The phrase had both hurt and
angered her. Paul’s voice stepped right into her thoughts:

 
          
“I’m
sorry young Mason decided not to come with us. There must be a strong
attraction in town to separate him from Green.” Mary’s face clouded—she had not
forgotten Lora’s reference to the girls at the Paris. Then her head went
proudly up, and she smiled.

 
          
“Mister
Green doesn’t seem to be heartbroken,” she replied. “I suppose one man less won’t
matter, will it?”

 
          
“Not
a bit,” he said. “There are enough of us to take good care of you—Mary; if
there were not, I’d go back and get more.” His voice betrayed a tenderness he
had never shown to her before and it thrilled. She tried to answer lightly:

 
          
“You
might lose the mine.”

 
          
“My
dear, you are more to me than all the gold in Dakota,” he said earnestly. “I
only want wealth for your sake. Do you care for me, Mary?” The low, passionate
tone, the dark, pleading eyes, carried conviction; she could not but believe. “You
have been so kind to us,” she murmured. “I like you very much, Mister
Lesurge ”

 
          
“Paul,”
he smiled.

 
          
“Well—Paul,”
she amended, “but—I had not
thought ”
She broke off,
blushing and confused.

 
          
“1
understand
,” he said gently. “I did not dare to give
even a hint, but I could hold back no longer. I shall not ask for an answer
now. Think it over—and be kind.” His courtesy and consideration touched her, as
he meant they should, and she thanked him with a look which fanned the flame of
his desire.

 
          
“By
the way, say nothing of this as yet to Lora,” he counselled. “She is an odd
girl, and has all a sister’s jealousy for an only brother.” Mile after mile
they plodded on, picking a way through the varied welter of the wilderness.
When their guide called a halt on the bank of a rippling stream shaded by
cottonwoods, all were glad of the rest.

 
          
“Berg,
you once ran a hash-house, didn’t you?” Lesurge said. “I’m appointing you cook.

 
          
Get
a fire going and make coffee.” The little man’s expression was as near a smile
as his sour face could contrive; he preferred pots and pans to picks and
shovels. The men began to gather dry wood, and Paul rejoined the women. He
appeared to be in a gay humour.

 
          
“You’ll
eat with us, Green,” he said. “How much longer before we reach our destination?”

 
          
“Three-four
hours, I’d say,” the puncher replied, “unless we meet with difficulties.”

 
          
“Say
no more,” Lora begged. “Mary, we have not been brave—only lucky.
And all for a handful of yellow dirt.”

 
          
“A handful?”
Paul cried. “I expect to take those pack animals
to Deadwood piled with it, and to come back for more, eh, Phil?”

 
          
“We’ll
load every hoss we got an’ walk ourselves,” the prospector wrinkled.

 
          
“No
walking for me, thank you,” Lora said, and with a sly glance at the cowboy, “My
legs are simply—ornamental.”

 
          
“Then
we’ll have to leave you behind,” her brother laughed. “In the Black Hills gold
comes first.” When the journey was resumed, Sudden found that his companion had
lost her high spirits. She rode listlessly, head drooping, for some distance.
On several occasions he had to warn her of spots requiring care and once he
grabbed her bridle just in time to save her a nasty tumble.

 
          
The
hours crept by, spent in laborious riding, mostly at a walking pace. Only at
infrequent intervals, when a level space offered, could they shake a little
life into the heels of their mounts. Tedium was beginning to take hold of them
all when at length their guide paused and waited for Snowy to catch up. “Guess
this is it. Do yu recognize her?” he asked.

 
          
“Shore,
there’s
the of
shack,” was the reply. “Hey, Paul, we’ve
made it.” The men whooped as they hustled their horses and trotted into the
ravine. Husky,
dismounting,
stood studying the place.
When Snowy inquired what he thought of it, his answer was blunt enough:

 
          
“Never
seed an onlikelier prospect.”

 
          
“Any
experienced digger’ll tell you them’s often the richest,” the old man snapped.

 
          
Preparations
were begun for pitching camp. The ladies inspected the shack and promptly
elected to use the tent which had been brought for them, as being less
suggestive of spiders, scorpions, and other horrors. The “barscourin’s,”
however, decided it was good enough for them.

 
          
Some
hundred yards along the ravine was a tiny grass plateau, shaded by birch and
cottonwoods, and here the tent was erected and a rough lean-to shelter put
together for Lesurge and Snowy.

 
          
The
puncher, for reasons of his own, announced that he preferred to sleep in the
open; his blanket and saddle were all he needed. Lesurge was superintending
these arrangements when Sudden strolled up.

 
          
“It
won’t be dark yet awhile,” he said. “I’m goin’ to see if I can scare up a deer—fresh
meat’ll be an improvement on sow-belly.
Like to come along,
Ducane?”

 
          
“Shore
would—I ain’t
no
use here,” came the prompt reply. “That’s
a good idea, Green; we’ll make you hunter to the party,” Lesurge laughed.

 
          
The
two men got their mounts and loped off. When they were a safe distance away,
Snowy chuckled and said: “Yo’re a clever cuss, Jim. I was wonderin’ what excuse
we could make to git away times. How
fur do
you make
it? I never was
no
good at measurin’.”

 
          
“Not
much more’n a couple o’ miles in a straight line but yu gotta twist about some.
See the belt o’ firs over there with a point o’ rock peepin’ above it? That’s
the Rock in’ Stone.”

 
          
“Burn
my whiskers if it ain’t. I never looked at her from here.” They were threading
a thicket when Sudden held up a warning hand, grabbed his rifle, and
disappeared on foot into the bushes. Ten minutes later Snowy heard a report,
and then the puncher reappeared, carrying the carcase of a young buck, which he
proceeded to secure to his saddle.

 
          
“There’s
a pool, an’ by the tracks it’s a regular drinkin’ place,” he said.
“Worth rememberin’.”
They hurried on and presently,
penetrating the circle of trees, reached the rampart of rock. Tying their
mounts, they slipped through the concealed opening. At the other end of the
hollow, five men were busily at work. Sudden uttered a low Cowboy call and one
of the stooping figures straightened up, let out an answering whoop, and came
charging towards them.

 
          
“Jim?”
he cried. “Yu got here then?”

 
          
“No,
I’m still on the way,” Sudden said ironically.

 
          
Snowy
was already among the workers. “How’s she pannin’ out?” he asked excitedly.

 
          
It
was Rogers who replied. “Mister Ducane, she’s lousy with gold; I never see the
like of it.”

 
          
“Good,”
the little man said, “but cut out thè mister’—we’re all pardners here.” Rogers
nodded. “We ain’t losin’ no time—sca’cely stoppin’ to feed; Jim said we might
be disturbed,” he went on, and as Sudden came up, “I’m buryin’ the stuff under
the big tree yu picked out.”

 
          
“What’s
that?” Snowy wanted to know.

 
          
“I
told him to cache the dust in the brush; no sense in losin’ that as well as the
claim if we get druv out,” the puncher explained. “I’ll show yu the spot.”

 
          
“Jim,
I’m liftin’ my lid to you,” Snowy said warmly. “You got savvy. Well, Mister
Jacob, what
d’you think
of her?”

 
          
“It’s
the most remarkable alluvial deposit I ever heard of,” was the reply.

 
          
“You
figure it’s just a pocket?”

 
          
“Certainly.
Under the sand and gravel, there is a thin layer
of almost pure gold on the bed-rock. Somewhere up there”— he pointed to the
great cliff with its swinging stone—“is the mother-lode, but you’d need
dynamite and a crushing plant to get at it.”

 
          
“Guess
yo’re
right,” the prospector agreed. “Well, cleanin’
this hole out will give us enough to do—an’ to spend, but …” He gazed
regretfully at the mountain, his mind on the hidden wealth it contained.

 
          
Mason
accompanied them to the entrance. “Get out all yucan, Gerry,” Sudden told him.

 
          
“It
won’t take Paul’s party long to find they’re workin’ a dead hoss an’ then
somethin’s liable to break loose.”

 
          
“How’s—everybody?”
the boy asked.

 
          
“She’s
lookin’ fine,” Sudden grinned. “Rode all the way with dear Paul, an’ seemed to
be enjoyin’
herself
.” He waited while Gerry expressed
a few fervent wishes respecting dear Paul, and added, “I’m beginnin’ to doubt
if yu like the fella.”

 
          
“Mixin’
so much with Miss Lesurge is shorely sharpenin’ yore wits,” the boy came back,
and asked how many men Paul had brought.

 
          
“Husky?”
Gerry
said,
when he had heard the names. “Ain’t he the
joker who wanted to string yu up?”

 
          
“Yeah,
but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sorta white.”

 
          
“On’y
seven, countin’ Paul hisself; that ain’t so many,” Gerry reflected aloud.