Kitabı oku: «Louisiana Lou. A Western Story», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XVII
THE SECRET OF THE LOST MINE

Through most of the day Dave and Solange pushed on up the cañon and the snow fell steadily, deepening under foot. As yet there were no drifts, for the wind was not blowing and progress was easy enough. After a few hours the snow grew deep enough to ball up under the feet of the horses and to cause some inconvenience from slipping. More than once Solange was in danger of being thrown by the plunge of her horse as his feet slid from under him. This served to retard their progress considerably but was not of much consequence aside from that and the slight element of added danger.

They had no more than fifteen miles to go before reaching the rendezvous, and this they made shortly after noon. Dave, who had become more silent than ever when he found himself alone with the girl, pitched the tent and then went to gather a supply of wood. Unused to strenuous riding, Solange went into her tent and lay down to rest.

They had expected to find De Launay, but there was no sign of him. Dave said that he might be within a short distance and they not know it, and asserted his intention of scouting around to find him after he had got the wood.

Solange was asleep when he came back with a load snaked in with his lariat, and he did not disturb her. Leaving the wood he rode on up the cañon looking for signs of De Launay. But, although he spent the better part of the afternoon in the search, riding in and out of every branch gully, and quartering up the slopes to where the black stands of timber began, he found no trace of the man.

Finally, fearing that Solange would begin to be frightened at his absence, he turned and started back to the camp. He had marked it by a large outcrop that stuck out of the cañon wall, forming a flat oblong bench of rock. This had hung on the slope about a hundred feet above the floor of the valley, and so he made his way along at about that height. It was beginning to get dark, the snow was falling heavily and he found it difficult to see far in front of him.

“High time old Sucatash was fannin’ in fer dogs,” he said to himself. “The winter’s done set in for sure.”

Fearing that he would miss the camp by keeping so high he headed his horse downward and finally reached the bottom of the cañon. Here the snow was deeper but the going was better. He turned downward with some relief, and was just about to spur his horse to greater speed when, through the gray mist of snow, a shadowy figure loomed up before him.

“Hey, De Launay?” he called. The figure did not answer but moved toward him.

He reined in his horse and leaned outward to look more intently. Behind the man, who was mounted, he saw the blurred outlines of pack animals. “De Launay?” he called again.

The figure seemed to grow suddenly nearer and more distinct, descending close upon him.

“It ain’t no Delonny,” chuckled a shrill voice. “It’s me.”

“Huh!” said Dave, with disgust. “Jim Banker, the damned old desert rat!”

“Reckon you ain’t so glad to see me,” wheezed Jim, still chuckling. “Old Jim’s always around, though; always around when there’s gold huntin’ to do. Always around, old Jim is!”

“Well, mosey on and pull your freight,” snarled Dave. “We don’t want you too close around. It’s a free country, but keep to windward and out o’ sight.”

“You don’t like old Jim! Hee, hee! Don’t none of ’em like old Jim! But Jim’s here, a-huntin’ – and most of them’s dead that don’t like him. Old Jim don’t die! The other fellers dies!”

“So I hears,” said Dave, with meaning. He said no more, for Banker, without the slightest warning, shot him through the head.

The horses plunged as the body dropped to the ground and Jim wheezed and cackled as he held his own beast down.

“Hee, hee! They all of ’em dies, but old Jim don’t die!”

With a snort Dave’s horse wheeled and galloped away up the cañon. The sound of his going frightened the prospector. He ceased to laugh, and cowered in his saddle, looking fearfully about him into the dim swirl of the snow.

“Who’s that?” he called.

The deadly silence was unbroken. The old man shook his fist in the air and again broke into his frightful cursing.

“I ain’t afraid!” he yelled. “Damn you. I ain’t afraid! You’re all dead. You’re dead, there; French Pete’s dead, Sucatash Wallace’s dead, Panamint’s dead. But old Jim’s alive! Old Jim’ll find it. You bet you he will!”

He bent his head and appeared to listen again. Then:

“What’s that? Who’s singin’?”

He fell to muttering again, quoting doggerel, whined out in an approach to a tune: “Louisiana – Louisiana Lou!”

“Louisiana’s dead!” he chuckled. “If he aint he better not come back. The gal’s a-waitin’ fer him. Louisiana what killed her pappy! Ha, ha! Louisiana killed French Pete!”

He turned his horse and slowly, still muttering, began to haze his burros back down the cañon.

“Old Jim’s smart,” he declaimed. “All same like an Injun, old Jim is! Come a-sneakin’ up past the camp there and the gal never knew I was nigh. Went a-sneakin’ past and seen his tracks goin’ up the cañon. Just creeps along and rides up on him and now he’s dead! All dead but the gal and old Jim! Old Jim don’t die. The gal’ll die, but not old Jim! She’ll tell old Jim what she knows and then old Jim will find the gold.”

Through the muffling snow he pushed on until the faint glow of a fire came to him through the mist of snowflakes. A shadow flitted in front of it, and he stopped to chuckle evilly and mutter. Then he dismounted and walked up to the camp, where Solange busied herself in preparing supper.

“That you, Monsieur David?” she called cheerily, as Jim’s boots crunched the snow.

Jim chuckled. “It’s just me – old Jim, ma’am,” he said, his voice oily and ingratiating. “Old Jim, come to see the gal of his old friend, Pete.”

Solange whirled. But Jim had sidled between her and the tent, where, just inside the flap, rested the rifle that Sucatash had left her.

“What do you wish?” she asked, angrily. Her head was reared, and in the dim light her eyes glowed as they caught reflections from the fire. She showed no fear.

“Just wants to talk to you about old times,” whined Banker. “Old Jim wants to talk to Pete’s gal, ma’am.”

“I heard a shot a while ago,” said Solange sharply. “Where is Monsieur Dave?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about Dave, ma’am. Reckon he’ll be back. Boys like him don’t leave purty gals alone long – less’n he’s got keerless and gone an’ hurt hisself. Boys is keerless that a way and they don’t know the mount’ins like old Jim does. They goes and dies in ’em, ma’am – but old Jim don’t die. He knows the mount’ins, he does! He, he!”

Solange took a step toward him. “What do you wish?” she repeated, sternly. Still, she did not fear him.

“Just to talk, ma’am. Just to talk about French Pete. Just to talk about gold. Old Jim’s been a-huntin’ gold a many years, ma’am. And Pete, he found gold and I reckon he told his gal where the gold was. He writ a paper before he died, they say, and I reckon he writ on that paper where the gold was, didn’t he?”

“No, he did not,” said the girl, shortly and contemptuously.

“So you’d say; so you’d say, of course.” He chuckled again. “There wasn’t no one could read that Basco writin’. But he done writ it. Now, you tell old Jim what that writin’ says, and then you and old Jim will find that gold.”

Solange suddenly laughed, bitterly. “Tell you? Why yes, I’ll tell you. It said – ”

“Yes, ma’am! It said – ”

He was slaveringly eager as he stepped toward her.

“It said – to my mother – that she should seek out the man who killed him and take vengeance on him!”

Jim reeled back, cringing and mouthing. “Said – said what? You’re lyin’. It didn’t say it!”

“I have told you what it said. Now, stand aside and let me get into my tent!”

With supreme contempt, she walked up to him as though she would push him aside. It was a fatal mistake, though she nearly succeeded. The gibbering, cracked old fiend shrank, peering fearfully, away from her blazing eyes and the black halo, rimmed with flashing color, of her hair. For a moment it seemed that he would yield in terror and give her passage.

But terror gave place suddenly to crazy rage. With an outburst of bloodcurdling curses, he flung himself upon her. She thought to avoid him, but he was as quick as a cat and as wiry and strong as a terrier. Before she could leap aside, his claw-like hands were tangled in her coat and he was dragging her to him. She fought.

She struck him, kicked and twisted with all her splendid, lithe strength, but it was in vain. He clung like a leech, dragging her closer in spite of all she could do. She beat at his snarling face and the mouth out of which were whining things she fortunately did not understand. His yellow fangs were bare and saliva dripped from them.

Disgust and horror was overwhelming her. His iron arms were bending her backward. She tried again to tear free, stepped back, stumbled, went down with a crash. He sprang upon her, grunting and whistling, seized her hair and lifted her head, to send it crashing against the ground.

The world went black as she lost consciousness.

The prospector got to his feet, grumbling and cursing. He did not seem to feel the bruises left on his face by her competent hands. He stooped over her, felt her breast and found her heart beating.

“She ain’t goin’ to die. She ain’t goin’ to die yet. She’ll tell old Jim what’s writ on that paper. She’ll tell him where the gold is.”

He left her lying there while he went to get his outfit. The packs were dragged off and flung to the ground, where saddle and rifle followed them. Then he went into the tent.

He pitched the rifle left by Sucatash out into the snow, kicked the girl’s saddle aside, dumped her bedding and her clothes on the floor, tore and fumbled among things that his foul hands should never have touched nor his evil eyes have seen. He made a fearful wreck of the place and, finally, came upon her hand bag, which, womanlike, she had clung to persistently, carrying it in her saddle pockets when she rode.

The small samples of ore he gloated over lovingly, mouthing and gibbering. But finally he abandoned them, reluctantly, and dug out the two notes.

Brandon’s letter he read hastily, chuckling over it as though it contained many a joke. But he was more interested in the other scrawl, whose strange words completely baffled him. He tried in vain to make out its meaning, turning it about, peering at it from all angles, like an evil old buzzard. Then he gave way to a fit of rage, whining curses and making to tear the thing into bits. But his sanity held sufficiently to prevent that.

Finally he folded the paper up and tucked it into a pocket. Then he gathered up the bedding, took it outside and roughly bundled the girl in it. She lay unconscious and dreadfully white, with the snow sifting steadily over her. Her condition had no effect on the old ruffian who callously let her lie, covering her only to prevent her freezing to death before he could extract the information he desired.

He finished her culinary tasks and glutted himself on the food, grunting and tearing at it like a wild animal. Then he dragged out his filthy bedding and rolled himself up in it, scorning the shelter of the tent, which stood wanly in the white, misty night.

It was morning when Solange recovered her senses. She awoke to a gray, chill world in which she alternately shivered and burned as fever clutched her. For many minutes she lay, swathed in blankets, dull to sensation, staring up at a leaden sky. The snow had ceased to fall.

Still unable to comprehend where she was or what had happened, she made a tentative attempt to move, only to wince as the pains, borne of her struggle and of lying on the bare ground, seized her. Stiff and sore, weakened, with head throbbing and stabbing, the whole horrible adventure came back to her. She tried to rise, but she was totally helpless and her least movement gave her excruciating pain. Her head covering had been laid aside before she had begun preparation of supper the night before, and her colorless and strangely brilliant hair, all tumbled and loose, lay around her head and over her shoulders in great waves and billows, tinged with blue and red lights against the snow. Her face, delicately flushed with fever, was wildly beautiful, and her eyes were burning with somber, terrible light deep in their depths.

It was this face that Jim Banker looked down upon as he came back from the creek, unkempt, dirty. It was these eyes he met as he stooped over her with his lunatic chuckle.

He winced backward as though she had struck him, and his face contorted with sudden panic. He cowered away from her and covered his own eyes.

“Don’t you look at me like that! I never done nothing!” he whined.

“Canaille!” said Solange. Her voice was a mere whisper but it fairly singed with scorn. Fearless, she stared at him and he could not meet her gaze.

His gusty mood changed and he began to curse her. She heard more foulness from him in the next five minutes than all the delirium of wounded soldiers during five years of war had produced for her. She saw a soul laid bare before her in all its unutterable vileness. Yet she did not flinch, nor did a single symptom of panic or fear cross her face.

Once, for a second, he ceased his mouthing, abruptly. His head went up and he bent an ear to the wind as though listening to something infinitely far away.

“Singin’!” he muttered, as though in awe. “Hear that! ‘Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!’”

Then he cackled. “Louisiana singin’. I hear him. Louisiana – who killed French Pete. He, he!”

After a while he tired, subsiding into mutterings. He got breakfast, bringing to her some of the mess he cooked. She ate it, though it nauseated her, determining that she would endeavor to keep her strength for future struggles.

While she choked down the food the prospector sat near her, but not looking at her, and talked.

“You an’ me’ll talk pretty, honey. Old Jim ain’t goin’ to hurt you if you’re reasonable. Just tell old Jim what the writin’ says and old Jim’ll be right nice to you. We’ll go an’ find the gold, you and me. You’ll tell old Jim, won’t you?”

His horrible pleading fell on stony ears, and he changed his tune.

“You ain’t a-goin’ tell old Jim? Well, that’s too bad. Old Jim hates to do it, pretty, but old Jim’s got to know. If you won’t tell him, he’ll have to find out anyhow. Know how he’ll do it?”

She remained silent.

“It’s a trick the Injuns done taught old Jim. They uses it to make people holler when they don’t want to. They takes a little sliver of pine, jest a little tiny sliver, ma’am, and they sticks it in under the toe nails where it hurts. Then they lights it. They sticks more of ’em under the finger nails and through the skin here an’ there. Then they lights ’em.

“Most generally it makes the fellers holler – and I reckon it’ll make you tell, ma’am. Old Jim has to know. You better tell old Jim.”

She remained stubbornly and scornfully silent.

The prospector shook his head as though sorrowful over her pertinacity. Then he got up and got a piece of wood, a stick of pitch pine, which he began to whittle carefully into fine slivers. These he collected carefully into a bundle while the helpless girl watched him.

Finally he came to her and pulled the blankets from her. He stooped and unlaced her boots, pulling them off. One woolen stocking was jerked roughly from a foot as delicate as a babe’s. She tried to kick, feebly and ineffectively. Her feet, half frozen from sleeping in the boots, were like lead.

The prospector laughed and seized her foot. But, as he held it and picked up a sliver, a thought occurred to him. He got up and went to the fire, where he stooped to get a flaming brand.

At this moment, clear and joyous, although distant and faint, came a rollicking measure of song:

 
“My Louisiana! Louisiana Lou!”
 

The girl’s brain failed to react to it. She gathered nothing from the sound except that there was some one coming. But Banker reared as though shot and whirled about to stare down the cañon. She could not see him and she was unable to turn.

Shaking as though stricken with an ague, the prospector stood. His face had gone chalk white under its dirty stubble of beard. He looked sick and even more unwholesome than usual. From his slack jaws poured a constant whining of words, unintelligible.

Down the cañon, slouching carelessly with the motion of his horse, appeared a man, riding toward them at a jog trot. Behind him jingled two pack horses, the first of which was half buried under the high bundle on his back, the second more lightly laden.

Banker stood, incapable of motion for a moment. Then, as though galvanized into action, he began to gabble his inevitable oaths, while he leaped hurriedly for his rifle. He grabbed it from under the tarpaulin, jerked the lever, flung it to his shoulder and fired.

With the shot, Solange, by a terrific effort, rolled over and raised her head. She caught a glimpse of a familiar figure and shrieked out with new-found strength.

“Mon ami! A moi, mon ami!”

Then she stifled a groan, for, with the shot, the figure sagged suddenly and dropped to the side of his horse, evidently hit. She heard the insane yell of triumph from the prospector and knew that he was dancing up and down and shouting:

“They all dies but old Jim! Old Jim don’t die!”

She buried her face in her hands, wondering, even then, why she felt such a terrible pang, not of hope destroyed, but because the man had died.

It passed like a flash for, on the instant, she heard another yell from Banker, and a yell, this time, of terror. At the same moment she was aware of thundering hoofs bearing down upon them and of a voice that shouted; a voice which was the sweetest music she had ever heard.

Dimly she was aware that Banker had dropped his rifle and scuttled like a scared rabbit into some place of shelter. Her whole attention was concentrated on those rattling, drumming hoofs. She looked up, tried to rise, but fell back with the pain of the effort stabbing her unheeded.

A horse was sliding to a stop, forefeet planted, snow and dirt flying from his hoofs. De Launay was leaping to the ground and the pack horses were galloping clumsily up. Then his arms were around her and she was lifted from the ground.

“What’s the matter, Solange? What’s happened? Where’s the boys? And Banker, what’s he doing shooting at me?”

His questions were pouring out upon her, but she could not answer them. She clung to him and sobbed.

“I thought he had killed you!”

His laugh was music.

“That old natural? He couldn’t kill me. Saw him aim and ducked. Shot right over me. But what’s happened to you?”

He ran a hand over her face and found it hot with fever.

“Why, you’re sick! And your foot’s bare. Here, tell me what has happened?”

She could only sob brokenly, her strength almost gone.

“That terrible old man! He did it. He’s hiding – to shoot you.”

De Launay’s hand had run over her thick mane of hair and he felt her wince. He recognized the great bump on the skull.

“Death of a dog!” he swore in French. “Mon amie, is it this old devil who has injured you?”

She nodded and he began to look about him for Banker. But the prospector was not in sight, although his discarded rifle was on the ground. The lever was down where the prospector had jerked it preparatory to a second shot which he had been afraid to fire. The empty ejected shell lay on the snow near by.

De Launay turned back to Solange. He bent over her and carefully restored her stocking and shoe. Then he fetched water and bathed her head, gently gathering her hair together and binding it up under the bandeau which he found among her scattered belongings. She told him something of what had happened, ascribing the prospector’s actions to insanity. But when De Launay asked about Sucatash and Dave she could do no more than tell him that the first had gone to the ranch to get snowshoes and dogs, and the latter had gone out yesterday and had not come back, though she had heard a single shot late in the afternoon.

De Launay listened with a frown. He was in a cold rage at Banker, but there were other things to do than try to find him. He set to work to gather up the wreckage of the tent and outfit. Then he rounded up the horses, leaving the burros and Banker’s horse to stay where they were. Hastily he threw on the packs, making no pretense at neat packing.

“I’ll have to get you out of this,” he said. “With that lunatic bushwacking round there’ll never be a moment of safety for you. You’re sick and will have to have care. Can you ride?”

Solange tried to rise to her feet but was unable to stand.

“I’ll have to carry you. I’ll saddle your horse and lead him. The others will follow my animals. I’ll get you to safety and then come back and look for Dave.”

With infinite care he lifted her to his saddle, holding her while he mounted and gathered her limp form into his left arm. His horse fortunately was gentle, and stood. He was about to reach for the reins of her horse when something made her turn and look up the slope of the hill toward the overhanging, ledgelike rock above the camp.

“Mon ami!” she screamed. “Gardez-vous!”

What happened she was not able to exactly understand. Only she somehow realized that never had she understood the possibility of rapid motion before. Her own eyes had caught only a momentary glimpse of a head above the edge of the rock and the black muzzle of a six-shooter creeping into line with them.

Yet De Launay’s movement was sure and accurate. His eyes seemed to sense direction, his hand made one sweep from holster to an arc across her body and the roar of the heavy weapon shattered her ears before she had fairly realized that she had cried out. She saw a spurt of dust where the head had appeared.

Then De Launay’s spurs went home and the horse leaped into a run. The pack horses, jumping at the sound of the shot, flung up their heels, lurched to one side, circled and fell into a gallop in the rear. Clattering and creaking, the whole cavalcade went thundering up the valley.

De Launay swore. “Missed, by all the devils! But I sure put dust in his eyes!”

He turned around and there, sure enough, was Banker, standing on the rock, pawing at his eyes. The shot had struck the edge of the rock just below his face and spattered fragments all over him.

De Launay laughed grimly as the groping figure shook a futile fist at him. Then Banker sat down and dug at his face industriously.

They had ridden another hundred yards when a yell echoed in the cañon. He turned again and saw Banker leaping and shrieking on the rock, waving hands to the heavens and carrying on like a maniac.

“Gone plumb loco,” said De Launay, contemptuously.

But, unknown to De Launay or mademoiselle, the high gods must have laughed in irony as old Jim Banker raved and flung his hands toward their Olympian fastness.

De Launay’s shot, which had crushed the edge of the rock to powder, had exposed to the prospector the glittering gold of French Pete’s lost Bonanza!