CHAPTER XI
THE ATTACK
The interior of the fortress was lighted by three big ceiling lamps. The portholes by the door were shielded from the light by screens. Four men, each with two rifles, stood guard there. That door was the only entrance to the fortress. It was formidable in its metal-studded oak. The Lava Gang were convinced that, before the attackers could batter it down, they could annihilate them by pouring a stream of lead through the portholes. They were supremely confident in their impregnable position.
Three men sat at a table and faced Judge Ransom. The Yuma Kid, Baldy, and several other men lounged against a near-by wall. One of these wore his hat pulled down over his eyes and a handkerchief over his face. He kept to the shadows and did not speak. The judge wondered why he wanted to conceal his identity.
The man in the center of the trio at the table laughed heavily, but there was no mirth in his laughter; it sounded more like the snarl of an animal than anything human.
“Judge, maybe I better explain, so you’ll understand just how serious we are. Did you ever hear of Jean Napoleon? He was a direct descendant of the great Napoleon. He called himself le Diable à Cheval.”
The judge had heard of him, and heard of his terrible cruelty. He nodded.
“Then let me start with myself. You have known me as Francisco Garcia. My real name is Francisco Napoleon. He was my father. The gentleman here on my right, you have known as Bill Anderson, is my brother, Richard Napoleon. On my left you have Mac Kennedy, otherwise Cupid Dart; he also is my brother – Thomas Napoleon. We have a fourth brother; can you guess who he is?” the big, toadlike man asked.
Puzzled, wondering, the judge shook his head.
“You sentenced him to be hung – Pete Cable.” The Toad’s face was mottled with fury; his large, protruding eyes were bloodshot. The judge recoiled from the hate he saw there.
“You understand now we are serious. We will go to any length to save our brother and to avenge him,” the Toad growled.
Bewildered by these revelations, the judge remained silent for a moment, but when he spoke his voice was steady.
“I have nothing more to say. Pete Cable was a murderer, tried and convicted as such. To save my own life, I will certainly not turn him loose,” he said quietly.
“Judge, be sensible. We will surely hang you, if you refuse, and there are some things worse than death. Things that make a man want to die, make him beg for death,” Bill Anderson said calmly.
The judge shuddered. Anderson’s very calmness was far more terrifying than the Toad’s animallike rage. He knew these men were not bluffing, and he had no hope that his friends outside would be able to save him. Yet never for a moment did he consider weakening. He would not turn a beast like Pete Cable loose on the world, in order to save his own life. He summoned his courage to face the ordeal and remained silent.
The three at the table waited, while the judge could hear his own heart pound. At last the Toad beckoned to two men leaning against the wall.
“Sam, suppose you show the judge what the Apaches do to prisoners. Don’t hurt his right hand; he’ll need that to sign a release. Start easy, but show what you can do,” the Toad said.
One of the men, with a pockmarked face, started around the table toward the judge. In spite of himself the judge shivered, then he clenched his hands and waited for what was to come.
“Dios!” one of the guards at the door cried.
Every one swung about to face the door.
Outside there came a chorus of shrill cries, the thumping of horses’ hoofs, and the rumbling of a loaded wagon running wild downhill. For a fraction of a second the men at the table were still; they started to rise, then —
Straight through the window there shot a figure. At first it looked to the judge like some huge cat, for its eyes were flaming pools of fire. For an instant it seemed to remain suspended in the air. As it started to fall toward the floor, jagged streams of fire leaped from two big Colts. One of the guards at the door cried out and toppled from his platform.
The hurtling figure struck the floor, somersaulted, and, with its guns spitting fire, bounced to its feet. The Yuma Kid’s guns came into play first, then Baldy’s and Cupid Dart’s. The room was filled with a continuous bellow of hellish noise, clouds of acrid smoke, and streams of fire. Then, above the boom of guns, came a grinding smash, overwhelming all the other noises by its volume.
Every man in the room now had his gun out, firing at that bounding figure. Allen was in lightning action; he leaped by one man, spun about, and used him for a shield. His guns empty, he snatched out another pair from his holsters. The Yuma Kid fired at him. Flame from the gun burned his cheek, but the shot missed. As he ducked by the Kid, Allen fired in turn. The gunman stood for a moment with a startled look on his face, took two or three tottering steps, and fell straight forward on his face.
Smash! Smash!
The heavy battering ram beat at the door. The thick oak splintered, hung by one hinge.
The room was full of smoke cut by lightning, and through it the judge saw Allen leaping, ducking, and dodging. He was slower now; but always red flame poured in continuous streams from his two guns.
Cupid Dart was down, sprawled across the table. The Toad, one hand clutching his chest, was trying to bring his wavering gun on Allen.
Another crash, the door came down. Led by Sam Hogg, men poured into the room. A few more shots, and it was over.
The judge had not moved from his position before the table. Scarcely a minute had passed since Allen came flying through the window. Yet death had struck on all hands.
“Yuh all right, judge?” Sam Hogg bawled hoarsely.
The judge was speechless. Tom Powers ran through the swirling smoke and threw his arm around Ransom’s shoulders. Slowly the dense, blue-white fog melted away and revealed the wreckage.
The Yuma Kid lay dead, almost at the judge’s feet. Cupid Dart was sprawled on the table, and even as the judge watched, his body fell in a heap to the floor. Baldy was dead against the wall. Three others lay sprawled on the floor. The Toad was dying, breathing curses through the bloody froth on his lips. The rest of the outlaws were prisoners, their faces full of terror and their hands upraised.
The judge saw Jim-twin Allen leaning weakly against the farther wall. Each hand still held a Colt; smoke gently curled from the barrels. Tom Powers sprang toward Allen, but before he reached him Snippets dodged through the door and was by his side.
“Jim!”
“I done it!” he said, grinning at her.
One side of his face was burned black; a little trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to stain his chin. He stood on one leg; the other hung limp and twisted.
“Ace Cutts – cover him – so the judge – won’t – know,” he whispered.
His guns slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. He smiled at Snippets.
Tom Powers caught him as he swayed forward. Sam Hogg pushed the sheriff away, almost fiercely.
“Let me tend to him!” he cried.
After an examination he arose to his feet, and there were tears in his eyes.
“He was hit six times – once through the chest, twice in the leg – and got a rib smashed. The others don’t count. But the little runt is going to live!”
Two riders were sent to town for a doctor. With the first streak of dawn Allen was carried in a litter across the border, where, five hours later, the doctor confirmed Sam Hogg’s opinion. Allen had a chance.
Later that day, when the Mexican soldiers arrived, they found six men dangling from beams in the adobe house, and seven others laid in a row and covered with blankets. Anderson had been one of the unlucky ones to die at the end of a rope.
Tom Powers started a collection to pay a famous bonesetter to come from San Francisco and set Allen’s leg, but Sam Hogg insisted on bearing the expense himself.
“The little cuss aggravates yuh, ’cause he won’t tell what he’s doin’, but I’m tellin’ yuh he’s a seven-eyed wonder for guts, so I’m payin’ to have his leg fixed,” he explained.
Anderson’s power being broken, the judge’s dreams appeared destined to come true.
One night, six weeks after the battle, when the nurse entered Allen’s room, she found him gone.
He and his grays had started on their return trip home – home to that valley of his in the Painted Desert.
CHAPTER XII
THE WAMPUS ON STILTS
As in so many other mining towns, killers and robbers walked the streets of Goldville, and the authorities tacitly agreed to forget their pasts unless they committed some fresh crime within the town. So wanted men, with huge rewards offered for them by other States, drank, ate, and slept and had no other worry than to keep a wary eye out for an enemy.
Real law would come later, and the enforcement of it, but now, while many of the decent citizens of the town disliked and feared the roughs who hung out in the Ace High Saloon, few had the nerve to interfere, if the rowdies attempted to ride a stranger.
“Gents, I’m tellin’ yuh it’s the only lollygaholopus that ain’t in captivity,” a big, florid-faced man said with mock gravity as he pointed to one of the passengers who had arrived on the stage. There had been five in all – three hard-rock miners, “Pop” Howes, a leathery-faced old prospector, and the man who was the object of the rough’s joke.
He was a small, undersized man of about twenty-eight. His hat, with its extra high crown, was the finest grade of Stetson; his boots, custom-made patent leather, had abnormally high heels; his shirt was of silk and knotted with a loose black tie, and his suit was black, and silk-faced lapels adorned his long-tailed frock coat. If he heard the rough’s pleasantry he made no move to resent it. He pulled at his heavy black beard and gazed indifferently about the town.
“Anderson, yuh is plumb mixed in your animology. That ain’t no lollygaholopus; it’s a wampus on stilts!” a tall, gawky, hook-nosed man cried.
The bums roared at this allusion to the little man’s high heels. Even the other spectators who disliked Anderson and his cronies smiled, but still the little man in the frock coat paid no attention to the remarks.
A small, undersized young fellow, dressed in ragged, faded jeans, who was standing on the outer fringe of the watchers, stared at the little man as if he were a ghost. Then suddenly the youth’s freckled face split in a wide, loose-mouthed grin.
“Gosh, it’s him!” he cried excitedly.
Pop Howes, the old prospector who had arrived on the stage, raised himself on tiptoe and peered over the heads of the crowd.
“Who’s ‘him’?” he asked, then added regretfully: “Darn them big bullies! Why don’t they take a gent their own size?”
“Jack ain’t used to being made fun of, so he don’t savvy they’re talkin’ about him,” said the ragged fellow. “But don’t yuh worry none. When he does, he’ll swell up and get darned big in them gents’ eyes.”
“Big” Anderson, the florid-faced bully, took several steps toward the little man, cocked his head on one side, and carefully surveyed the stranger from his patent-leather boots to his high-crowned Stetson. Then Anderson nodded his head decisively.
“Yep, ‘Hi,’ yuh is plumb correct! It’s the most perfect specimen of a wampus on stilts I ever seen. What do yuh say we capture it an’ sell it to some museum?”
The little man suddenly realized that these remarks were directed toward himself and, very slowly, he turned and glanced at Big Anderson and Hi Stevens, the other rough. They met his eyes with broad, taunting grins.
The little man stood there, quietly watching them for a moment, then walked briskly across the road toward them. Because of his high heels, he seemed to strut like a bantam rooster. His eyes were steady and bored into those of the two crude jesters, who were taken aback at his sudden advance.
“Was yuh gents talkin’ about me?” he asked coldly.
The two recovered from their surprise and grinned mockingly, then prepared to have further fun with the “wampus.”
“We sure was. I was remarkin’ yuh is the most perfect specimen of – ”
Big Anderson’s’ grin vanished, and his words came to an abrupt halt, for the little man’s coat opened like two doors on springs, and two big black guns seemed to leap from his belt into his hands. The bullies’ mouths grew slack, as they stared pop-eyed into the big, round barrels of those Colts.
“Yuh was sayin’?” the little man inquired.
“Put them guns away or – or – ” Hi Stevens attempted to bluster, but he could not bring himself to finish the sentence. While the stranger was small, those two guns were big, the hands that held them steady, and the eyes behind them very hard.
“Yuh was sayin’ I was a wampus?”
The voice was gentle, but it sounded to the two bullies like a death knell. Their courage oozed away visibly, and their hands fell limply from the butts of their guns. Hi Stevens choked and stammered, then spoke hesitatingly:
“Naw, I never said that.”
“Then it was your friend. Now, mister, yuh’ll have to teach him manners. Yuh’ll have to show him it ain’t nice to go callin’ strangers names. Just so he won’t forget it, yuh pull his ear with one hand an’ slap him good with the other.”
The spectators gathered closer; this was good – the bullies being bullied. The two roughs’ friends near the door of the Ace High moved restlessly, and one or two of them handled their guns; but the boy in the tattered jeans ran across the road and whispered something to them, and their desire to interfere seemed to vanish.
Anderson and Stevens stared at the little stranger as if they had suddenly become half-witted and did not understand his words. He repeated them again more sharply this time, and when Hi Stevens made no move to obey, his right-hand gun roared, and the bully, white-faced, hopped about on one foot and stared at his left boot, the heel of which had vanished.
“Hey, mister, don’t do that,” he whined.
“Do what I tole yuh to, or I’ll take one of your toes off next,” the little man warned.
Instinctively Hi Stevens knew that the threat was no bluff. Moved by resentment toward Big Anderson, who had started this ill-fated horseplay, Stevens suddenly reached over and, before his astonished friend could recover from his stupor, yanked one of Anderson’s ears and clouted him across the cheek with his other hand.
Big Anderson roared with anger and glared at Stevens; but, while he rubbed the red mark on his cheek, he made no move that the frock-coated stranger might have interpreted as hostile.
“Now, mister, it’s your turn to teach him not to go callin’ names.”
Big Anderson stepped toward Stevens with blood in his eyes.
“Mister, yuh stand still an’ take it or I’ll – ”
The stranger had no need to voice his threat, for Hi Stevens stopped in his tracks and waited. Anderson yanked Stevens’ ear, raised a big, hairy paw, and clouted him on the side of the head with such force that Stevens reeled backward.
“Now get the hell out of here!” the stranger snapped.
The two bullies, murderous with rage, both at each other and at the stranger, whirled about and hurried into the Ace High Saloon. The little man waited until they disappeared. Then he returned his guns to their holsters, with a movement as swift as that with which he had drawn them, whirled on his heel, and stalked toward the hotel.
“Baldy” Kane, a slender man of forty whose face and head were as guiltless of hair as an egg and whose gray eyes and long, sallow face were entirely devoid of expression, watched the black-coated stranger enter the hotel, then turned to a friend and asked:
“Who’s the little rooster?”
His friend nodded toward the ragged boy, who was now walking down the dusty street by the side of Pop Howes.
“Jim-twin Allen horned in suddenlike when the boys was thinkin’ of stoppin’ the little man, so I figger the little runt with the whiskers is Jim’s brother – ‘Jack-twin’ Allen.”
Kane shrugged, turned on his heel, and followed Big Anderson and Hi Stevens into the Ace High. A miner leaped down and whispered to a companion.
“If that there rip-snortin’ hellion of a Wyoming sheriff is here, hell is sure goin’ to pop, an’ Baldy is thinkin’ fast an’ hard!”
“’Tain’t safe to talk!” the other mumbled out of the corner of his mouth and turned away.
CHAPTER XIII
THE MINERS’ MEETING
Pop Howes’ mine, the American Beauty, was about a mile from town on the south side of the mining gulch where the walls became sheer and closed in. At the foot of the slope he had built a small three-room shack where he and his wife lived. Back of this were the barns, a donkey engine, and a narrow building where his Mexican workers formerly ate and slept. But the bunk house was now deserted, the engine silent. No work was going on in the shaft.
For thirty years Pop Howes had worked and saved; now he had been robbed and was broke. He had exhausted his credit at the bank. His eyes were bitter as they stared at the empty buildings.
The gulch had been formed by a cataclysm that had split a mountain when the world was young. On the north side of the gulch was the El Dorado Mine that was making a fortune for its owners. Pop Howes believed that the El Dorado lode extended through the whole mountain, on the south as well as the north side of the gulch, and that if he could run his shaft down another hundred feet, to the same level as the El Dorado shaft, he, too, would strike a rich, ore-bearing vein.
Jim Allen, who had accompanied Pop from town, glanced with ready sympathy at the old man’s brooding face. “So the bank wouldn’t give yuh a nickel?” he asked.
“Not a nickel, darn ’em! They was only too glad to loan me five thousand last year, but now they acts as if I was wantin’ to steal money from ’em!” Pop cried wrathfully.
“Maybe they figger if they don’t lend yuh no money they’ll get the mine an’ a fortune on the mortgage,” the ragged one said thoughtfully.
“Of course that’s it. That young fellow that they sent here knew his onions; he spent a week measurin’ an’ clippin’ rock from this side an’ then goin’ over yonder an’ doin’ the same thing,” Pop sputtered. “An’ if it hadn’t been for them darned quartz thieves what cleaned me out last week, I’d never have had to ask the bank for no money!”
The two reached the house and entered a long, low room where they found Mrs. Howes waiting for them. She was a thin, frail woman of fifty. Her face was lined and her hair snow-white, but her eyes still had the cheerful courage of the woman who has been taught by life to take the good with the bad. One look at her husband’s face and she knew his trip to the county seat had been unsuccessful.
Experience had taught her that disappointment is easier to bear on a full stomach, so she bustled into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a dish of venison stew. She placed this on the table and added a plate of hot biscuits and a pot of coffee.
When the men returned from washing up she had already piled their plates high with the steaming stew. Pop Howes slumped into his chair and gloomily told himself he was to lose the chance of a fortune, after thirty years’ labor, for the lack of only a few dollars.
It was not that he minded so much for himself, but his wife, who had stood by him through all sorts of hardships, loneliness, and the bitterest poverty, deserved some reward. Not that she had ever complained, though he had noticed at times a wistful look in her eyes and even the traces of tears. He knew that she wanted to visit again those relatives of hers in the East whom she had not seen since the days of her marriage. And recently, when they had thought they would soon strike the lode, soon have money, she had looked forward to it with a new longing.
Hardly had the two men finished their dinner when a messenger arrived with the news that a miners’ meeting was to be held that evening at the hotel.
“Bill Tucker sent up north an’ asked one of them gun-slingin’ sheriffs to come an’ help ketch the quartz thieves,” the messenger explained.
“Never knew Bill Tucker had enough sense to do that. Always figgered him as the dumbest town marshal I ever see,” Pop Howes grunted.
He arose, buckled on his gun, took his coat and hat from the peg behind the door, and filled his pipe. After he had lighted it he turned to the messenger and asked thoughtfully:
“Who’s this gun-slingin’ hombre?”
“Jack-twin Allen, the Wyoming sheriff.”
Pop Howes glanced at the small figure sitting by the fire, started to speak, thought better of it, and clumped from the room. The messenger followed.
The woman glanced curiously at Jim Allen, but her curiosity was tinged by sympathy and understanding. After a moment she asked falteringly:
“He’s your brother?”
“Yeh. Twin brother.” The voice was toneless, flat.
“An’ – have you spoken to him?” she asked. At the sight of his face she instantly regretted her words.
“Naw, an’ I don’t reckon I will. ’Cause, yuh see, Jack’s here on business, an’ he can’t go cavortin’ about with a disreputable gent like me. Reckon I’ll pull out pronto.”
Jim Allen was grinning now and he spoke with assumed indifference, but the woman saw behind the mask.
“Let me tell yuh somethin’, ma’am. Jack Allen is the darnedest, fightingest gent I ever see. Let me tell yuh what he done now.”
Enthusiastically Allen poured out praises of his brother’s courage, his skill, and the wonderful things he had accomplished. But the more he praised his brother, the more the woman understood his grief. Jim-twin Allen was an outlaw, with a fortune on his head; his brother was an officer of the law – the gulf between the two was insurmountable.
When Pop Howes arrived at the hotel he found “Hard-rock” Hogan and Bill Tucker, the town marshal, waiting for him. Tucker was a powerfully built man with a round, red face, a large mouth, and small gray eyes.
“Howdy, Pop!” he cried jovially. “We sent for Baldy Kane, Steven Brandon, ‘Two-finger’ Smith, and some of the other boys. Bill Tucker sent up North and asked Jack-twin Allen – yuh’ve heard of him, yes? – well, Bill asked him to come on down here to help ketch these here quartz robbers. Well, he’s here now, feedin’ his face, an’ he’ll be in here pronto.”
Bill Tucker cultivated a hearty, jovial manner, and, as the different owners and managers of mines in the gulch arrived, he greeted each one like a long-lost brother. Steve Brandon, the manager of the El Dorado, was one of the last to arrive.
He was a short, heavy man with gray hair and a close-cropped mustache. When he spoke he snapped out his words like pistol shots. Shortly after Steve Brandon arrived, Baldy Kane slid into the room. He nodded to those present, and then his face became an expressionless, claylike mask. He silently drifted into a dark corner.
“I hears tell that this here Jack Allen is faster than his brother Jim,” Bill Tucker boomed.
“Not any,” Pop declared shortly but emphatically.
“Wonder if the two speak? It’s darn funny – Jack comes here to clean up this town, an’ here is Jim, his brother, the best of all the jailbirds.” The marshal chuckled as if he found the situation amusing.
Hard-rock Hogan was one of the men who had worked in and about mines since early childhood; he had lived all his life among rough, violent men, and his experience with human nature was vast. He had discovered that many men used words to hide their thoughts, while others cultivated a masklike face after the manner of Baldy Kane. He glanced curiously at Bill Tucker.
Now he saw only the tragedy that lay beneath the meeting of two brothers in such circumstances, and he wondered if the town marshal had been aware the two would meet when he sent his invitation to Jack Allen. He was curious as to that, but he was more curious as to the reason behind the invitation; he was reasonably sure Tucker had some hidden motive. Hogan was still pondering the matter when the door opened and Jack Allen entered.
The famous Wyoming sheriff and United States marshal was cool and collected. His eyes swept the room and rested on each man in turn. Most of the miners met his searching gaze unflinchingly. But there were one or two men there who hastily looked away, for they had a feeling that Allen’s rather hard brown eyes might read more than they cared to tell. Bill Tucker stepped forward and introduced Allen to the assembly.
“Howdy, gents!” Jack greeted them.
They murmured a reply, then all grew silent.
“Suppose yuh give me a line on what’s been goin’ on here,” the little man suggested.
“It’s this way,” Bill Tucker explained. “The placers has been givin’ out an’ there ain’t nothin’ but quartz mining hereabouts now. About eight mines are workin’ sinkin’ shafts. The veins are darned thin but mighty rich. About four months ago some gang started stealin’ quartz, an’ since then every darn mine has been robbed.”
“On the quiet or with guns?” Allen interrupted.
“Sometimes one, sometimes the other. The last time this here gang worked they held up the American Beauty – about a week ago – shot one guard, locked up the workers, and made off with about four thousand dollars in quartz,” the town marshal explained.
“When did you find out about it?” Jack Allen asked.
Pop Howes cut into the conversation. “I was stayin’ in town that night with my wife an’ went out to the mine about daylight. I find a young Mex kid I left in the house, gunned proper, an’ the rest locked up, so I come into town an’ fetched Bill Tucker.”
“Yuh track ’em? Where did they go?”
“Yeh, I follered them clear to the head of the canyon an’ then come back. Yuh see, I’m town marshal, an’ we got a tough bunch of hombres hangin’ aroun’ here, so I got to sorter stick close to town an’ not go trackin’ across the mountains.” Bill Tucker flushed beneath Allen’s direct appraisal and floundered in his explanation.
“Why for d’yuh let these here tough hombres hang aroun’?” Allen asked quickly.
“Why for? ’Cause – why, there’s a bunch of ’em, an’ I sorta figgered to let the past slide, so long as the boys behaved,” Bill Tucker said uneasily. His eyes refused to meet Jack Allen’s direct gaze and glanced furtively about the room.
“All right. The first thing to do, then, is to make a list of all the gents what is not workin’, an’ all them who have a reward on ’em or are known to be bad ones, an’ tell ’em to get out of town,” the Wyoming sheriff said quietly.
“Would yuh put your brother, Jim Allen, on that list?” Steve Brandon barked.
“Yes!” Jack Allen snapped.
The miners regarded Allen curiously. Instinctively they knew he spoke the truth and would lock his own brother in jail if called upon to do so in the line of duty. Here was a man who made a fetish of honesty. Some of them had heard of him by reputation. Honest, hard, relentless in his pursuit of outlaws, he was known to be just. He cared nothing about the rewards for the outlaws he sought; having cleaned up a town or county, he would silently fade away, none the richer for his work.
After a general discussion, it was agreed that Jack Allen was to be given a free hand in the gulch. For a long while Bill Tucker insisted he should have authority within the town limits, but at length he was forced to give way and to agree to take orders from Allen.
Later, as Hard-rock Hogan and Pop Howes were walking up the starlit gulch toward their homes, they both chuckled as they recalled Bill Tucker’s expression when Jack Allen questioned him.
“Bill sorta showed up as a windbag, didn’t he?” the old prospector remarked.
“Yeh, Jack Allen is sure enough a little hellion on wheels.” Hard-rock grinned his admiration.
“How come yuh persuaded Bill to write to him?” asked Pop.
“I ain’t supposed to say, but it was Steve Brandon who got me to prod Bill to get Jack Allen,” Hard-rock answered, after a moment’s hesitation.
When Pop Howes entered the living room he found Jim-twin Allen waiting for him. Pop laughed as he related what had happened at the miners’ meeting that night.
“An’ yuh say it was Steve Brandon who started gettin’ Jack down here?” Allen asked curiously.
“Yeh. Steve sure has a head on him. Reckon he don’t want it known for fear these here quartz robbers will get after him.”
“Listen, Pop. I’ve been thinkin’. That night they robbed yuh – yuh say the kid they downed was dressed in his underclothes an’ wasn’t armed?”
“Yeh.”
“Did yuh ever think that maybe some one downed that kid, figgerin’ it was you – an’ done it for a purpose?” Allen asked.
Pop Howes frowned and stared thoughtfully into the fire.
“Jim, I reckon you’re correct. An’ that means that gang is workin’ for some one who knows I’m due to strike it rich an’ wants to cash me in so he can buy my claim off the old woman for almost nothin’!”
“Well, I figgers I’ll bunk here, an’, if they comes ag’in, I’ll give ’em a surprise.” Allen grinned cheerfully.
Pop Howes lay awake for a long time that night. He racked his brain despairingly, trying to think of some way by which he could raise the money to continue his operations and at the same time pay the bank its interest on the mortgage. The more he puzzled, the more hopeless it seemed. He was within a few feet of riches and, for the want of a few dollars, would be forced to watch some one else profit by his work. He thought of his wife, sleeping quietly beside him – how patient she had been, how hard working! Time after time she had been forced to work like a slave while he was in the mountains prospecting. And now what good had it done?
Pop turned back to bed. His wife tossed restlessly and moaned in her sleep.