Kitabı oku: «The Twins of Suffering Creek», sayfa 17
CHAPTER XXIV
– A BIBLE TALK
It was with a sigh of relief that Scipio now turned to Wild Bill. Somehow, he naturally looked to him for guidance. Nor did he quite know why.
“’Bout that Bible talk?” he inquired. “Guess you said they best set around in the sun.”
Bill nodded.
“I sure did. Guess they kind o’ need airin’ some. ’Tain’t no use in settin’ in their clothes damp; they’ll be gettin’ sick, sure. Ther’s a dandy bit o’ grass right here. Best set ’em down, an’ get around an’ hand ’em your talk.”
But the worried father pushed his weedy hair off his forehead with a troubled air.
“I haven’t read up a deal,” he apologized.
The gambler promptly swept his objection aside.
“That don’t figger any. Once you get goin’ you won’t find no trouble. It’s dead easy after you’re started. That’s the way it is with passons. They jest get a holt of a notion, an’ then–why, they jest yarn.”
“I see,” replied Scipio doubtfully, while the other men gathered round. “But,” he went on more weakly still, “’bout that notion?”
Bill stirred impatiently.
“That’s it. You start right in with the notion.”
“Course,” cried Sandy. “The notion’s easy. Why, ther’s heaps o’ things you ken take as a notion. Say, wa’an’t ther’ a yarn ’bout some blamed citizen what took to a cave, an’ the checkens an’ things got busy feedin’ him?”
“Ravens,” said Sunny.
“Ravens nuthin’,” cried the indignant Sandy. “Checkens of the air, they was.”
Sunny shrugged.
“That ain’t no sort o’ Bible talk, anyway,” he protested. “You need suthin’ what gives ’em a lesson. Now, ther’s Nore an’ his floatin’ ranch–”
“That wa’an’t a ranch neither,” contradicted Sandy promptly. “It was jest a barn.”
“Ark,” said Toby.
“Wal, ark then,” admitted Sandy. He didn’t mind Toby’s interference.
But the discussion was allowed to go no further. Bill’s impatience manifested itself promptly.
“Say, it don’t matter a cuss whether it was an ark or a barn or a ranch. Sunny’s yarn goes. Now, jest set around an’ git the kids in the middle, an’ you, Zip, git busy with this Nore racket.”
The last authority had given its decision. There was no more to be said, and the matter was promptly proceeded with. The expectant children, who had stood by listening to the discussion of their elders, were now seated on the grass, and before them sat the board of Scriptural instruction. Bill remained in his position on the tree-trunk. On the ground, cross-legged, sat Scipio, on his right. Sunny lounged full length upon the ground next to him. Sandy and Toby formed the other horn of the half-circle on the gambler’s left.
It was a quaint picture upon which the warm noon sun shone down. The open grass clearing, surrounded with tall dense bushes. On one side the wash-tub and the various appurtenances of the bath, with the creek a little way beyond. And in the open, sitting alone, side by side, their little pink bodies bare of all but their coarse woolen undershirts, their little faces shining with wholesome soap, their eyes bright with expectancy for the story that was to come, the two pretty children of a lonely father. Then, in a semicircle about them, the members of the Trust, with their hard, unclean faces, their rough clothes and rougher manners, and their uncultured minds driven by hearts that were–well, just human.
“Git busy,” ordered Bill, when the Trust had finally settled itself.
And promptly Scipio, with more determination than discretion, cleared his throat and plunged into his peroration.
His mild face beamed. Gentleness and affection shone in every line of it. And somehow his diffidence, the realization of his ignorance of the work demanded of him, were absorbed and lost to his consciousness in the wonderful parental delight of teaching his offspring.
“Say, kiddies,” he began, with that soft inflection that seems so much a part of some men of rough manners, “I want you to listen careful to a yarn I’m goin’ to tell you about. Y’see–”
He hesitated, and unconsciously one hand was lifted and passed across his brow with a movement that suggested puzzlement. It was as though he were not quite sure whither his story were going to lead him.
The gambler nodded encouragingly.
“Bully,” he murmured, turning his eyes just for one moment in the little man’s direction. But it was only for a moment. The next he was staring absorbedly out at the bush opposite, like a man lost in some train of thought far removed from the matter in hand. His beady eyes stared unsmilingly, but with curious intentness.
However, Scipio was far too much concerned with what lay before him to think of anything else. But the sharply spoken encouragement spurred him, and he went ahead.
“Now, maybe you both heard tell how God made this funny old world for us to live in,” he went on, endeavoring to give lightness to his manner. “He made Sufferin’ Creek, too–”
Toby coughed, and Sandy whispered audibly to him.
“I don’t guess Zip ought to run Sufferin’ Creek in this yarn,” he said seriously. “Sufferin’ Creek don’t seem right in a Bible talk.”
Scipio waited, and then, ignoring the comment, labored clumsily on.
“Now, I’m goin’ to tell you a yarn about it. Y’see, kiddies–y’see, ther’ weren’t a heap o’ folk around when God first fixed things right–”
“Jest one man an’ a snake,” interrupted Sandy in his informative way.
“Shut up,” whispered Toby, prodding him with his elbow. Sandy scowled, but remained silent.
“Wal,” continued Scipio, “as I was sayin’, He jest made one sort o’ sample man an’ a snake. An’,” he added, suddenly brightening under inspiration, “He sot ’em in a garden, an’ called it the Garden of Eden.”
Little Vada suddenly clapped her hands.
“Yes, an’ it was all flowers an’–an’ fruit,” she cried ecstatically.
Jamie’s eyes were dancing with delight, too, but he remained silent, waiting for developments.
The members of the Trust looked on with the deepest interest. Each man’s face wore a half-smile–that is, all except the gambler’s, who still appeared to be absorbed in his own thought–and the bush opposite. But the interest of these men was less in the little man’s story than in a speculation as to when he was going to break down, and yield his tutelary attitude before a battery of infantile questions.
However, Scipio was still in a fairly strong position.
“Well,” he agreed, “I do guess ther’ was fruit ther’, but I don’t guess it was a fruit ranch exactly. Maybe it was sort of mixed farmin’. Howsum, that don’t matter a heap. Y’see, ther’ was heaps an’ heaps of animals, an’ bugs, an’ spiders, an’ things–an’ jest one man.”
“Ther’ was a woman,” corrected the irrepressible Sandy. “That’s dead sure. They got busy on one of the man’s ribs an’ made her. Ain’t that so, Toby?”
He turned to the squat figure beside him for corroboration, but Sunny took up the matter from across the semicircle.
“You’re a wise guy,” he exclaimed scornfully. “Can’t you kep from buttin’ in? Say, I’d hate to know sech a heap as you.”
Just for an instant Wild Bill turned his sharp eyes on his companions.
“Shut up you’se all,” he cried. And promptly Scipio was allowed to continue his story.
“Now, ’bout that garden,” he said thoughtfully. “Y’see, God told that feller he wasn’t to pick no fruit. Y’see, I guess it was needed fer cannin’ or preservin’. Maybe it was needed for makin’ elegant candy. I don’t know rightly–”
“You’re talkin’ foolish,” exclaimed Sandy, jumping up excitedly. “Cannin’?” he cried scornfully. “They didn’t can fruit them days.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Scipio apologetically.
“I know I am,” snorted Sandy.
“Then shut up,” cried Bill, without turning his head.
“Anyhow,” went on Scipio, when all argument had ceased, “it was jest up to that feller not to pick that fruit. An’ he didn’t mean to neither, only he got kind o’ friendly with that snake–”
Little Vada jumped up.
“I know–I know,” she cried, in the wildest excitement. “The snake made him eat an apple, an’ then the rain came down, an’ poured an’ poured–”
“Poured an’ poured,” echoed Jamie, jumping to his feet and dancing around his sister.
“That’s so,” admitted Scipio, in relief.
“Poured nothin’,” murmured Sandy under his breath. “He’s messin’ up the whole yarn.”
But as his comment didn’t reach the father’s ears he went on placidly.
“Wal, the rain poured down,” he said, “so they was nigh drownded–”
“Why’d the rain tum?” suddenly inquired Jamie with interest.
“Ah!” murmured Scipio. Then he added brightly, “Because he picked the fruit.”
“Y’see,” explained Vada, with sisterly patronage, “he didn’t orter picked the apple.”
Jamie nodded without understanding.
“’Ess.”
“Wal,” went on Scipio, taking advantage of the pause, “he was nigh drownded, an’ he had to swim an’ swim, an’ then he built himself a ranch.”
“Barn,” cried Sandy, unable to keep quiet any longer. “It was a barn to kep his stock in.”
“Ark,” said Toby decidedly. “He built a Nore’s Ark–same as toys kiddies plays with.”
“But Bill said Sunny’s yarn goes,” protested the troubled Scipio. And, receiving an affirmatory nod from the preoccupied gambler, he went on. “Wal, he set that ranch afloat, an’ put out a boat an’ rescued all the other animals, an’ bugs, an’ spiders, an’ things, an’ then set out a duck to see how things was going–”
“Not a duck, Zip,” said Sunny, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“Course not,” agreed Sandy scornfully.
“Pigeon,” suggested Toby.
But little Vada saved the situation. She jumped to her feet, dragging Jamie with her. Her dark eyes were shining, and her round little cheeks were scarlet with excitement.
“It wasn’t a duck, nor a pigeon, nor nothin’ but a parrot,” she declared. “Momma told us. He sent out a parrot; an’ it flew, an’ flew, an’ flew. An’ then it come back to the ark, carryin’ a tree in its beak. An’ then Nore knew there wasn’t no more rain, nor nothing, an’ they turned his wife into a pillow o’ salt ’cos she’d made him eat the apple. An’, pop-pa, tell us another.”
“’Ess, a nudder,” cried Jamie, his chubby fat legs wabbling under him as he danced about–“a nudder–a nudder–a nud–”
But his lisping request was never completed, for, without a word of warning, Wild Bill suddenly leapt from his seat, and, with a wave of his arm, swept the two children sprawling into their father’s lap, while he charged across the clearing. Just for a fraction of a second he paused as he closed on the bush he had so long contemplated, and his friends heard his voice in a furious oath.
“You son of a–!” he roared; and simultaneously there was a flash and a sharp report from his gun–another, and yet another. Then he vanished into the bush, his smoking revolver still in his hand ready for use, followed, with no less speed, by Toby and Sandy Joyce.
For a moment Scipio stared; but Sunny Oak seemed to grasp something of the situation. He flung himself before the two children, his right hand gripping a revolver which he always carried concealed amongst his rags. And at the same moment the gambler’s voice came back to him.
“Huyk them kids right back to the store, an’ kep ’em there!” it cried. And instantly the indolent loafer, with a movement almost electrical in its swiftness, seized Vada in his arms and dashed off up the hill, followed by the little father, bearing the screaming Jamie in his.
Inside the bush the three men searched, with eyes and ears alert in the fashion of furious terriers. The branches and inner leaves were spattered with blood, showing that the gambler’s shots had taken some effect. The ground, too, was covered with footprints.
With a rush Bill set off trailing the latter, and so soft was the ground that he had little or no difficulty in the matter. The trail took them along the creek bank, and here and there a splash of blood warned them that their quarry was severely wounded.
But, even so, they were doomed to disappointment. Thirty yards from the clearing they came to a spot where the moist soil was well beaten with horse’s hoofs, and here the human footprints ended. All three men stared out down the creek. And then it was that another furious oath escaped the gambler’s lips, as he beheld a racing horseman making good his escape, more than a hundred yards below them.
For some moments Wild Bill stood raging impotently. Then he turned on his companions, with a perfect devil glaring out of his ferocious eyes.
“God’s curse light on ’em!” he roared. “It’s James’ gang. May his soul rot. I’ll get ’em! I’ll get ’em! They’re after those kids. But, by the wall-eyed Mackinaw, they shan’t touch a hair o’ their heads as long as I’m a livin’ man. It’s war, boys! D’ye hear? It’s him an’ me. Me–an’ James! An’ I swar to God he’ll go down an’ out as sure as my name’s Wild Bill!”
CHAPTER XXV
WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB
When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn into a cruel longing for harm–harm calculated to be of the most merciless description.
Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler’s mind. His outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart. That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred burning in his heart.
All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the questions he would so gladly have put.
When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton’s ranch. Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts. However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even mentioning his own adventure down at the river.
But if he neglected to do so, it was otherwise with his friends, the other members of the Trust. The moment his back was turned they shed the story broadcast, each man competing with the other in his endeavor to make it thoroughly palatable to the sensation-loving ears of their fellow-townsmen. And probably of them all Sandy was the most successful.
In half-an-hour, loyally supported by his friends, he had the whole of Suffering Creek strung to such a pitch of nervous excitement that every man was set looking to his firearms, and all talk was directed towards the most adequate means of defending their homes and property.
In the briefest possible time, from a peaceful, industrious camp, Suffering Creek was transformed into a war base, every citizen stirred not only to defense of his own, but with a longing to march out to the fray, to seek these land pirates in the open and to exterminate them, as they would willingly exterminate any other vermin.
Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial glass.
And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion. Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted nerves.
Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose. Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp generally were left defenseless.
What could he do? He must rid himself of the “dust” somehow. He must dispose of it secretly. A hiding–that seemed to him, amidst his trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers, he longed for the hours to pass until he could close his store and seek the gambler in his hut.
In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows, spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to assume the responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that he, and he alone, could see it through.
The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process, James’ doings–his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence–had somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that everything this desperado did was a challenge to him–a sneering, contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his fingers under his very nose.
That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a simple philanthropist. It was the man’s vanity, the headstrong vanity of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made his own.
He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind and body was seeking inspiration.
And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound; and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes.
“Gee!” he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing through the room.
And for an hour his attitude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body.
It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his bunk.
“What’s the time?” he demanded.
Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler’s table.
“Nigh one o’clock,” he said, with a faint smile.
But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm.
“Good,” he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other’s face. They were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had a heartening effect.
“Say,” cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, “this is Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” he counted the days off on his lean, muscular fingers. “That’s it, sure. Wednesday we send out a ‘stage,’ an’ you’re goin’ to ship your gold-dust on it. You’ll ship it to Spawn City. Meanwhiles you’ll buy up all you feel like. Clean the camp out of ‘dust,’ an’ ship it by that stage.”
The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the words never matured. He was looking into the man’s burning eyes, and he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.
“An’,” he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut out the irony, “an’ who’s goin’ to–drive it through?”
“I am.”
The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.
“You?” he cried in a sharp whisper. “I–I don’t get you.”
The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.
“No, o’ course you don’t,” he cried hotly; “course you don’t. Here, how much ‘dust’ ken you ship?”
“Maybe we’d need to ship sixty thousand dollars’ worth. That is, if we rake around among the boys.”
Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book. He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the table with a force that set the lamp rattling.
“There it is,” he cried, with a fierce oath. “Ther’s my bank-book. Ther’s seventy odd thousand dollars lyin’ in the Spawn City bank to my dogasted credit. See?” He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent forward. “I’m handin’ you a check fer your dust,” he went on. “I’ve seventy thousand dollars says I’m a better man than James an’ all his rotten scum, an’ that I’m goin’ to shoot him to hell before the week’s out. Now d’ye get me?”
Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.
For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his purpose when obstructed.
“You stand there shakin’ your fool head like some mosey old cow,” he cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. “An’ you’ll go on shakin’ it till ther’ ain’t ‘dust’ enuff in your store to bury a louse. You’ll go on shakin’ it till James’ gun rips out your vitals. Gee!” He threw his arms above his head appealing. “Give me a man,” he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table and shouted his final words: “Say, you’ll get right out an’ post the notices. I’m buyin’ your ‘dust,’ an’ I’m driving the stage.”
