The Girl of the Golden West (12 page)

"Say," broke in the Girl, gazing at him in helpless admiration,
"ain't that great? Ain't that great? Oh, you got to let me stand
treat!"

"No, really I would prefer not to take anything," responded
Johnson, putting a restraining hand on her as she was about to leap
from the table.

At that moment Nick's hurried footsteps reached their ears.
Turning, the Girl, with a swift gesture, waved him back. There was
a brief silence, then Johnson spoke:

"Say, Girl, you're like finding some new kind of flower."

A slight laugh of confusion was his answer. The next moment,
however, she went on, speaking very slowly and seriously: "Well,
we're kind o' rough up here, but we're reachin' out."

Johnson noted immediately the change in her voice. There was no
mistaking the genuineness of her emotion, nor the wistful look in
her eyes. It was plain that she yearned for someone who would teach
her the ways of the outside world; and when the man looked at the
Girl with the lamp-light softening her features, he felt her
sincerity and was pleased by her confidence.

"Now, I take it," continued the Girl with a vague, dreamy look
on her face, "that's what we're all put on this earth for—everyone
of us—is to rise ourselves up in the world—to reach out."

"That's true, that's true," returned Johnson with gentle and
perfect sympathy. "I venture to say that there isn't a man who
hasn't thought seriously about that. I have. If only one knew how
to reach out for something one hardly dares even hope for. Why,
it's like trying to catch the star shining just ahead."

The Girl could not restrain her enthusiasm.

"That's the cheese! You've struck it!"

At this juncture Nick appeared and refused to be ordered away.
At length, the Girl inquired somewhat impatiently:

"Well, what is it, Nick?"

"I've been tryin' to say," announced the barkeeper, whose face
wore an expression of uneasiness as he pointed to the window, "that
I have seen an ugly-lookin' greaser hanging around outside."

"A greaser!" exclaimed the Girl, uneasily. "Let me look." And
with that she made a movement towards the window, but was held back
by Johnson's detaining hand. All too well did he know that the
Mexican was one of his men waiting impatiently for the signal. So,
with an air of concern, for he did not intend that the Girl should
run any risk, however remote, he said authoritatively:

"Don't go!"

"Why not?" demanded the Girl.

Johnson sat strangely silent.

"I'll bolt the windows!" cried Nick. Hardly had he disappeared
into the dance-hall when a low whistle came to their ears.

"The signal—they're waiting," said Johnson under his breath, and
shot a quick look of inquiry at the Girl to see whether she had
heard the sound. A look told him that she had, and was uneasy over
it.

"Don't that sound horrid?" said the Girl, reaching the bar in a
state of perturbation. "Say, I'm awful glad you're here. Nick's so
nervous. He knows what a lot o' money I got. Why, there's a little
fortune in that keg."

Johnson started; then rising slowly he went over to the keg and
examined it with interest.

"In there?" he asked, with difficulty concealing his
excitement.

"Yes; the boys sleep around it nights," she went on to
confide.

Johnson looked at her curiously.

"But when they're gone—isn't that rather a careless place to
leave it?"

Quietly the Girl came from behind the bar and went over and
stood beside the keg; when she spoke her eyes flashed
dangerously.

"They'd have to kill me before they got it," she said, with cool
deliberation.

"Oh, I see—it's your money."

"No, it's the boys'."

A look of relief crossed Johnson's features.

"Oh, that's different," he contended; and then brightening up
somewhat, he went on: "Now, I wouldn't risk my life for that."

"Oh, yes, you would, yes, you would," declared the Girl with
feeling. A moment later she was down on her knees putting bag after
bag of the precious gold-dust and coins into the keg. When they
were all in she closed the lid, and putting her foot down hard to
make it secure, she repeated: "Oh, yes, you would, if you seen how
hard they got it. When I think of it, I nearly cry."

Johnson had listened absorbedly, and was strangely affected by
her words. In her rapidly-filling eyes, in the wave of colour that
surged in her cheeks, in the voice that shook despite her efforts
to control it, he read how intense was her interest in the welfare
of the miners. How the men must adore her!

Unconsciously the Girl arose, and said:

"There's somethin' awful pretty in the way the boys hold out
before they strike it, somethin' awful pretty in the face o' rocks,
an' clay an' alkali. Oh, Lord, what a life it is anyway! They eat
dirt, they sleep in dirt, they breathe dirt 'til their backs are
bent, their hands twisted an' warped. They're all wind-swept an'
blear-eyed I tell you, an' some o' them jest lie down in their
sweat beside the sluices, an' they don't never rise up again. I've
seen 'em there!" She paused reminiscently; then, pointing to the
keg, she went on haltingly: "I got some money there of Ol'
Brownie's. He was lyin' out in the sun on a pile o' clay two weeks
ago, an' I guess the only clean thing about him was his soul, an'
he was quittin', quittin', quittin', right there on the clay, an'
quittin' hard. Oh, so hard!" Once more she stopped and covered her
face with her hands as if to shut out the horror of it all.
Presently she had herself under control and resumed: "Yes, he
died—died jest like a dog. You wanted to shoot 'im to help 'im
along quicker. Before he went he sez to me: 'Girl, give it to my
ol' woman.' That was all he said, an' he went. She'll git it, all
right."

With every word that the Girl uttered, the iron had entered
deeper into Johnson's soul. Up to the present time he had tried to
regard his profession, if he looked at it at all, from the point of
view which he inherited from his father. It was not, in all
truthfulness, what he would have chosen; it was something that, at
times, he lamented; but, nevertheless, he had practised it and had
despoiled the miners with but few moments of remorse. But now, he
was beginning to look upon things differently. In a brief space of
time a woman had impelled him to see his actions in their true
light; new ambitions and desires awakened, and he looked downward
as if it were impossible to meet her honest eye.

"An' that's what aches you," the Girl was now saying. "There
ain't one o' them men workin' for themselves alone—the Lord never
put it into no man's heart to make a beast or a pack-horse o'
himself, except for some woman or some child." She halted a moment,
and throwing up her hands impulsively, she cried: "Ain't it
wonderful—ain't it wonderful that instinct? Ain't it wonderful what
a man'll do when it comes to a woman—ain't it wonderful?" Once more
she waited as if expecting him to corroborate her words; but he
remained strangely silent. A moment later when he raised his
troubled eyes, he saw that hers were dry and twinkling.

"Well, the boys use me as a—a sort of lady bank," presently she
said; and then added with another quick change of expression, and
in a voice that showed great determination: "You bet I'll drop down
dead before anyone'll get a dollar o' theirs outer The Polka!"

Impulsively the road agent's hand went out to her, and with it
went a mental resolution that so far as he was concerned no
hard-working miner of Cloudy Mountain need fear for his gold!

"That's right," was what he said. "I'm with you—I'd like to see
anyone get that." He dropped her hand and laid his on the keg; then
with a voice charged with much feeling, he added: "Girl, I wish to
Heaven I could talk more with you, but I can't. By daybreak I must
be a long ways off. I'm sorry—I should have liked to have called at
your cabin."

The Girl shot him a furtive glance.

"Must you be a-movin' so soon?" she asked.

"Yes; I'm only waiting till the posse gets back and you're
safe." And even as he spoke his trained ear caught the sound of
horses hoofs. "Why, they're coming now!" he exclaimed with
suppressed excitement, and his eyes immediately fastened themselves
on his saddle.

The Girl looked her disappointment when she said:

"I'm awfully sorry you've got to go. I was goin' to say—" She
stopped, and began to roll the keg back to its place. Now she took
the lantern from the bar and placed it on the keg; then turning to
him once more she went on in a voice that was distinctly
persuasive: "If you didn't have to go so soon, I would like to have
you come up to the cabin to-night an' we would talk o' reachin' out
up there. You see, the boys will be back here—we close The Polka at
one—any time after…"

Hesitatingly, helplessly, Johnson stared at the Girl before him.
His acceptance, he realised only too well, meant a pleasant hour or
two for him, of which there were only too few in the mad career
that he was following, and he wanted to take advantage of it; on
the other hand, his better judgment told him that already he should
be on his way.

"Why, I—I should ride on now." He began and then stopped, the
next moment, however, he threw down his hat on the table in
resignation and announced: "I'll come."

"Oh, good!" cried the Girl, making no attempt to conceal her
delight. "You can use this," she went on, handing him the lantern.
"It's the straight trail up; you can't miss it. But I say, don't
expect too much o' me—I've only had thirty-two dollars' worth o'
education." Despite her struggle to control herself, her voice
broke and her eyes filled with tears. "P'r'aps if I'd had more,"
she kept on, regretfully, "why, you can't tell what I might have
been. Say, that's a terrible tho't, ain't it? What we might a
been—an' I know it when I look at you."

Johnson was deeply touched at the Girl's distress, and his voice
broke, too, as he said:

"Yes, what we might have been is a terrible thought, and I know
it, Girl, when I look at you—when I look at you."

"You bet!" ejaculated the Girl. And then to Johnson's
consternation she broke down completely, burying her face in her
hands and sobbing out:

"Oh, 'tain't no use, I'm rotten, I'm ignorant, I don't know
nothin' an' I never knowed it 'till to-night! The boys always tol'
me I knowed so much, but they're such damn liars!"

In an instant Johnson was beside her, patting her hand
caressingly; she felt the sympathy in his touch and was quick to
respond to it.

"Don't you care, Girl, you're all right," he told her, choking
back with difficulty the tears in his own voice. "Your heart's all
right, that's the main thing. And as for your looks? Well, to me
you've got the face of an angel—the face—" He broke off abruptly
and ended with: "Oh, but I must be going now!"

A moment more and he stood framed in the doorway, his saddle in
one hand and the Girl's lantern in the other, torn by two emotions
which grappled with each other in his bosom. "Johnson, what the
devil's the matter with you?" he muttered half-aloud; then suddenly
pulling himself together he stumbled rather than walked out of The
Polka into the night.

Motionless and trying to check her sobs, the Girl remained where
he had left her; but a few minutes later, when Nick entered, all
trace of her tears had disappeared.

"Nick," said she, all smiles now, "run over to The Palmetto
restaurant an' tell 'em to send me up two charlotte rusks an' a
lemming turnover—a good, big, fat one—jest as quick as they
can—right up to the cabin for supper."

"He says I have the face of an angel," is what the Girl repeated
over and over again to herself when perched up again on the poker
table after the wondering barkeeper had departed on her errand, and
for a brief space of time her countenance reflected the joy that
Johnson's parting words had imprinted on her heart. But in the
Girl's character there was an element too prosaic, and too
practical, to permit her thoughts to dwell long in a region lifted
far above the earth. It was inevitable, therefore, that the notion
should presently strike her as supremely comic and, quickly leaping
to the floor, she let out the one word which, however adequately it
may have expressed her conflicting emotions, is never by any chance
to be found in the vocabulary of angels in good standing.

Notwithstanding that The Palmetto was the most pretentious
building in Cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that
outwardly asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon
contrasted unfavourably with its rival, The Polka. There was not
the individuality of the Girl there to charm away the impress of
coarseness settled upon it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards
and the riffraff of the camp, who were not tolerated elsewhere. In
short, it did not have that certain indefinable something which
gave to The Polka Saloon an almost homelike appearance, but was a
drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to recommend it but its
size.

In a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of
liquor,—but used only on rare occasions, most of The Palmetto's
patrons preferring the even more stifling atmosphere of the
bar-room,—the Wells Fargo Agent had been watching and waiting ever
since he had left The Polka Saloon. On a table in front of him was
a bottle, for it was a part of Ashby's scheme of things to solace
thus all such weary hours.

Although a shrewd judge of women of the Nina Micheltoreña type
and by no means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, Ashby,
nevertheless, had felt that she would keep her appointment with
him. In the Mexican Camp he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes,
and had assumed, not unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time
for anything to occur which would cause a revulsion of feeling on
her part. But as the moments went by, and still she did not put in
an appearance, an expression of keen disappointment showed itself
on his face and, with mechanical regularity, he carried out the
liquid programme, shutting his eyes after each drink for moments at
a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of his mind when he
opened them again; and it was in one of these moments that he heard
a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of the
Sheriff.

Without a word Rance walked into the room and over to the table
and helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action
the Wells Fargo Agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse
had failed to catch their quarry. At first a glint of satisfaction
shone in Ashby's eyes: not that he disliked Rance, but rather that
he resented his egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe
all who came in contact with him; and it required, therefore, no
little effort on his part to banish this look from his face and
make up his mind not to mention the subject in any manner.

For some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each
other inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to
this room, with little or no ventilation. It was enough to sicken
anyone, but both men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of
their calling, apparently thought nothing of it, the Sheriff
seemingly absorbed in contemplating the long ash at the end of his
cigar, but, in reality, turning over in his mind whether he should
leave the room or not. At length, he inaugurated a little contest
of opinion.

"This woman isn't coming, that's certain," he declared,
impatiently.

"I rather think she will; she promised not to fail me," was the
other's quiet answer; and he added: "In ten minutes you'll see
her."

It was a rash remark and expressive of a confidence that he by
no means felt. As a matter of fact, it was induced solely by the
cynical smile which he perceived on the Sheriff's face.

"You, evidently, take no account of the fact that the lady may
have changed her mind," observed Rance, lighting a fresh cigar.
"The Nina Micheltoreñas are fully as privileged as others of their
sex."

As he drained his glass Ashby gave the speaker a sharp glance;
another side of Rance's character had cropped out. Moreover,
Ashby's quick intuition told him that the other's failure to catch
the outlaw was not troubling him nearly as much as was the blow
which his conceit had probably received at the hands of the Girl.
It was, therefore, in an indulgent tone that he said:

"No, Rance, not this one nor this time. You mark my words, the
woman is through with Ramerrez. At least, she is so jealous that
she thinks she is. She'll turn up here, never fear; she means
business."

The shoulders of Mr. Jack Rance strongly suggested a shrug, but
the man himself said nothing. They were anything but sympathetic
companions, these two officers, and in the silence that ensued
Rance formulated mentally more than one disparaging remark about
the big man sitting opposite to him. It is possible, of course,
that the Sheriff's rebuff by the Girl, together with the wild goose
chase which he had recently taken against his better judgment, had
something to do with this bitterness; but it was none the less true
that he found himself wondering how Ashby had succeeded in
acquiring his great reputation. Among the things that he held
against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his
achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys
insisted upon placing him. Was this Wells Fargo's most famous
agent? Was this the man whose warnings were given such credence
that they stirred even the largest of the gold camps into a sense
of insecurity? And at this Rance indulged again in a fit of mental
merriment at the other's expense.

But, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the
matter was that the Sheriff was jealous of Ashby. Witty, generous,
and a high liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who
fascinated women; moreover, he was known to be a favourite—and here
the shoe pinched—with the Girl. True, the demands of his profession
were such as to prevent his staying long in any camp. Nevertheless,
it seemed to Rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at The
Polka when the boys were at the diggings.

After Ashby's observation the conversation by mutual, if
unspoken, consent, was switched into other channels. But it may be
truthfully said that Rance did not wholly recover his mental
equilibrium until a door was heard to open noiselessly and some
whispered words in Spanish fell upon their ears.

Now the Sheriff, as well as Ashby, had the detective instinct
fully developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that
language and had an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation
going on between a man and a woman, who were standing just outside
in a sort of hallway. As a result, therefore, both officers sprang
to the door with the hope—if indeed it was Nina Micheltoreña as
they surmised—that they might catch a word or two which would give
them a clue to what was likely to take place at the coming
interview. It came sooner than they expected.

"… Ramerrez—Five thousand dollars!" reached their ears in a
soft, Spanish voice.

Ashby needed nothing more than this. In an instant, much to the
Sheriff's astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of
his heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a
woman with a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently,
entered by another door.

Nina Micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as
much as an icy look. Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing
her; a wise proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the
head and a subtle movement of the woman's shoulders told him that
she was in anything but a quiet state of mind. One glance towards
the door behind him, however, and the reason of her anger was all
too plain: A Mexican was vainly struggling in the clutches of
Ashby.

"Why are you dragging him in?" Far from quailing before him as
did her confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed
fire. "He came with me—"

Ashby cut her short.

"We don't allow greasers in this camp and—" he began in a
throaty voice.

"But he is waiting to take me back!" she objected, and then
added: "I wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him
to I'll go at once." And with these words she made a movement
towards the door.

Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other
he held on to the Mexican. Of a sudden there had dawned upon him
the conviction that for once in his life he had made a grievous
mistake. He had thought, by the detention of her confederate, to
have two strings to his bow, but one glance at the sneeringly
censorious expression on the Sheriff's face convinced him that no
information would be forthcoming from the woman while in her
present rebellious mood.

"All right, my lady," he said, for the time being yielding to
her will, "have your way." And turning now to the Mexican, he added
none too gently:

"Here you, get out!"

Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room.

"There's no use of your getting into a rage," went on Ashby,
turning to the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. "I
calculated that the greaser would be in on the job, too."

All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair
chewing his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a
look of languid insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not
disturb the woman in the least, for she ignored him completely.

"It was well for you, Señor Ashby, that you let him go. I tell
you frankly that in another moment I should have gone." And now
throwing back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty,
little case and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance's
face, saying: "It depends on how you treat me—you, Mr. Jack Rance,
as well as Señor Ashby—whether we come to terms or not. Perhaps I
had better go away anyway," she concluded with a shrug of admirably
simulated indifference.

This time Ashby sat perfectly still. It was not difficult to
perceive that her anger was decreasing with every word that she
uttered; nor did he fail to note how fluently she spoke English, a
slight Spanish accent giving added charm to her wonderfully soft
and musical voice. How gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she
looked as she stood there, voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the
expression that had been almost diabolical, gradually fading from
her face. Was it possible, he asked himself, that all this
loveliness was soiled forever? He felt that there was something
pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him represented
negotiable property which could be purchased by any passer-by who
had a few more nuggets in his possession than his neighbour; and,
perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history of this
former belle of Monterey he put a little more consideration into
the voice that said:

"All right, Nina, we'll get down to business. What have you to
say to us?"

By this time Nina's passionate anger had burned itself out. In
anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked
straight ahead of her into space. It was not because she was
assailed by some transient emotion to forswear her treacherous
desire for vengeance; she had no illusion of that kind. Too vividly
she recalled the road agent's indifferent manner at their last
interview for any feeling to dwell in her heart other than hatred.
It was that she was summoning to appear a vision scarcely less
attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than that of seeing
herself avenged: a gay, extravagant career in Mexico or Spain which
the reward would procure for her. That was what she was seeing, and
with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make herself a
fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white, delicate
fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full, red
lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce:

"Ramerrez was in Cloudy Mountain to-night."

But however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men,
neither gave vent to an exclamation. Instead Rance regarded his
elegantly booted feet; Ashby looked hard at the woman as if he
would read the truth in her eyes; while as for Nina, she continued
to puff away at her little cigarette after the manner of one that
has appealed not in vain to the magic power which can paint out the
past and fill the blank with the most beautiful of dreams.

The Wells Fargo man was the first to make any comment; he
asked:

"You know this?" And then as she surveyed them through a scented
cloud and bowed her head, he added: "How do you know it?"

"That I shall not tell you," replied the woman, firmly.

Ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the
question:

"Where was he?"

"Oh, come, Ashby!" put in Rance, speaking for the first time.
"She's putting up a game on us."

In a flash Nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed
advanced to the table where the Sheriff was sitting. Indeed, there
was something so tigerish about the woman that the Sheriff, in
alarm, quickly pushed back his chair.

"I am not lying, Jack Rance." There was an evil glitter in her
eye as she watched a sarcastic smile playing around his lips. "Oh,
yes, I know you—you are the Sheriff," and so saying a peal of
contemptuous merriment burst from her, "and Ramerrez was in the
camp not less than two hours ago."

Ashby could hardly restrain his excitement.

"And you saw him?" came from him.

"Yes," was her answer.

Both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any
longer that she spoke the truth.

"What's his game?" demanded Rance.

The woman answered his question with a question.

"How about the reward, Señor Ashby?"

"You needn't worry about that—I'll see that you get what's
coming to you," replied the Wells Fargo Agent already getting into
his coat.

"But how are we to know?" inquired Rance, likewise getting ready
to leave. "Is he an American or a Mexican?"

"To-night he's an American, that is, he's dressed and looks like
one. But the reward—you swear you're playing fair?"

"On my honour," Ashby assured her.

The woman's face stood clear—cruelly clear in the light of the
kerosene lamp above her head. About her mouth and eyes there was a
repellent expression. Her mind, still working vividly, was
reviewing the past; and a bitter memory prompted the words which
were said however with a smile that was still seductive: