CHAPTER VIII
THE WHISPERERS
WITH only a few hundred dollars on his person Pretty Soon took the stage and commenced the epochal journey home. Gilbert was depressed. Luck had favored the vagabond. His shiftless life had led him to pockets of gold. Then his sense of fair-play intervened and arraigned him before the brain cell which enthrones the Judge men called Conscience.
According to Old Misery the wandering prospector possessed the great virtue of being honest. He would not break his word once he gave it. Joseph Gilbert, well reared and thoroughly trusted, had used money not his own. The unhappy comparison made him so morose he told the mountain man he would take the mule and go on ahead, avoiding Nevada City.
Old Misery read something of the Vermonter's thoughts and kindly said:
“It was my new medicine that pulled Pretty Soon out of his mess and sent him back the biggest Injun in the home-tribe. Lawd! If it wa'n't for smothering in them places I like to go along just to hear the stories he'll tell. I mean to say, younker, my red medicine is aching to be at work. I can feel it tugging to bu'st loose, just like a young buf'ler pony in the fall hunt. Go along to camp and keep in mind how my medicine is sorter sizing you up and thinking how you can be helped.”
“Good-by. Try not to get drunk,” muttered Gilbert.
Old Misery was thoughtful for a bit after his young friend had left him. Them Tom Tobin came up, an anticipatory gleam in his bold eyes, and expressed himself by spitting on his hands and unfastening his buckskin shirt and starting to remove it.
“You little heyoka runt!” exclaimed Old Misery admiringly. “You still have war-dreams. But our little rinktum can wait a bit longer. I ain't in fettle just now. That younker got under my old hide. Lawd! but it was funny seeing him taking care of me, thinking I was drunk! That is; it was funny at first, then it was funny with tears in it. I don't know as it was so damned funny after all. No more than when a squaw goes up in the hills to yowl for her dead buck.”
“You're gifting old and soft,” growled Tobin. “You're backing down. You don't seem to sabe that that Illinoistown rumpus bu'sted up before it was finished.”
“It can wait a bit and be all the better for waiting, Tommy,” soothed Misery. “As I feel now a baker could slap my face and I'd take it without a word. No fun fighting with a man who feels like that. You see, the younker took care of me. Me. Watched over me and put me to bed. Why damn your iron hide I ain't been took care of since you dragged me, shot full of holes, from the 'Pache Pass fight and gambled my rifle and blankets away while I was gitting well!
“That touched me, Tommy, when you packed me from the pass and lost my property, but not so much as what the younker done. Of course you had to do it; but I didn't expect nothing from him. You'll have the fight I owe you, and it'll be a humdinger. If you make it a fine point we'll have to have it now, I s'pose, but I'm telling you I can't git much fun out of it to-day.”
“Wait till you feel more like then,” grumbled Tobin. “I don't fight with no sick men, or cripples. Just now you 'pear to be the one that's heyoka. Let's have a snort of whisky and then plug along to Nevada City.”
“I was sort of hankering to lay round till Phelps gits tired of digging,” mused Misery. “I went to some bother to fix things. Must be 'bout time for him to be knocking off work. You see, I wanted every one to think I was drunk and asleep afore I dared to sneak out in the dark and salt that place as she oughter be salted. I'd given the price of a prime bar to have seen and heard him when Pretty Soon uncovered my nuggets. But I knew if I was there I'd git to laffing and he'd s'pect something. In here.”
They entered the saloon where Gilbert had rescued the mountain man the night before. To the bartenders' surprise and great relief they were subdued and quiet in ordering drinks. They took much time in consuming their liquor—waiting. At last a man bawled out something down the street. It was picked up by another man and passed on. It was tossed from mouth to mouth and reached the saloon. The bartender ran to the window. He ran to the door as men emerged from houses and stores. Some were gesticulating and talking violently. Others were doubled over with laughter.
“She busted,” proudly whispered Old Misery.
“I think we're going to have some fun,” eagerly decided Tobin, turning his back to the bar.
A group of men halted before the saloon, jostled each other about and crowded inside. In the lead, wild of gaze, was Phelps. He was carrying a pick. Immediately behind him came his friends and henchmen. The rest of the little mob was made up of those who rejoiced on hearing some one had been tricked. They had laughed immoderately when Pretty Soon Jim bought the claim. Phelps strode up to the bar and glared wrathfully at the mountain men. Old Misery whistled like an elk and pretended to be afraid.
Phelps sternly accused him:
“You planned that game. You supplied the nuggets. You went out of your way to make an enemy of me.”
Old Misery gazed at him sadly and told Tobin: “Worked too long in the heat.”
“His good fortune has made him plumb heyoka,” gravely agreed Tobin. “Some folks git upset if they have a streak of luck. How's diggings, partner?”
“How's diggings?” passionately repeated Phelps. “You know damned well there ain't any. You 'n' your friend fixed it so's I'd be robbed of more'n thirty thousand dollars. You knew all along that claim had been salted. Can't make me believe you don't know who salted it.”
Old Misery rested an elbow on the bar, yawned, and told Tobin:
“I said it, Tom, when Pretty Soon Jim came bleating to us about buying a rich claim for twenty-six hundred dollars. Don't you remember how I says to Jim, 'Son, they've shifted the cut on you. The low-grade skunk who took your poor little twenty-six hundred dollars is worth a million and knows pay dirt backwards. But he likes money so much he'd cheat his poor, old, blind grandpap to git the price of a chaw of terbaccer.' You remember me saying that, right to Jim's long face. But 'tween you 'n' me, Tom, I never s'posed such a wakan gold-hunter as that million-dollar man's said to be, would ever turn 'round and buy a worthless claim back.”
“Never believed it myself, Misery. It shows he's just plumb heyoka. Back in the States they have places where they keep heyoka folks, I've heard. But we must humor him, Misery.”
Turning to Phelps he gently inquired: “How's it feel, partner, to find yourself sitting on a hornet you caught for some one else?”
“That's right, Tommy. Gentle him,” eagerly urged Old Misery.
A roar of laughter smothered Phelps' reply. He stood wrathful and impotent and waited for the noisy merriment to subside. He began to regret parading his loss. As his gaze swept over the sober faces of his friends, and the mocking countenances of those who were amused, he missed Gilbert. The young easterner had been at the claim when Pretty Soon Jim reluctantly sold it.
Steadying his voice he told Old Misery in an undertone, “You win this time, but I'll make it even Stephen.”
“Making war-talk, you dog?” growled Tobin hopefully.
Old Misery jammed his friend to one side and thrust his face close to the miner's and demanded:
“When? No time like now.”
Phelps grinned wolfishly but backed away, and reminded:
“I'm worth a cold million dollars. I'm too precious to myself to be hurt in a fight with a man that owns nothing but a tame bear. I won't fight less it's with a man worth as much as I be. But inside of a few days you'll admit it's even Stephen. Chew it over.”
“Meaning some of your friends will comb my friend,” murmured Tobin ominously.
“No, sir! He can live a million years before any friend of mine hurts a hair of his head. But after I've evened it all up he may feel sicker'n if I'd had him pay with his hide.”
Before either of the mountain men could digest this vague threat and make a suitable response he had slipped back into the crowd and, followed by his friends, was out in the street.
“Didn't dare raise me, nor even call, as Peters would say,” chuckled Old Misery. “Just tried a cheap bluff and skedaddled.”
To the men who remained he announced:
“Mighty queer, but I got a few nuggets, just like what your million-dollar man bought from Jim Pipps. They're not much good to me and if you're hankering for liquor here's the price.”
And he tossed a couple of nuggets on the bar and the crowd surged forward. But instead of reaching for bottles and glasses the men bunched and jostled in front of the bartender, staring at the tiny pieces of gold. Each man was instantly planning how he could be ahead of all others in profiting someway by the incident. Each had the same thought, secretly to trail the old mountain man and stake a claim.
But as wary, suspicious eyes met those of a neighbor each realized no one man could count the coup. Compacts were made with a sidelong glance: an alliance to secure the mountain man's secret without a word being spoken. Inside of fifteen seconds all personal ambitions were merged in mass intelligence and the unvoiced partnership was perfected.
Then the groups dissolved and became a long line of thirsty throats, and much badinage was exchanged. And there was general rejoicing that Phelps had been caught in his own trap. Many compliments were heaped upon Old Misery, and more than one man earnestly vowed he would “stand by him” if Phelps, through his retainers, attempted violence.
“If it comes to a fuss don't any of you clutter up the ground by trying to help,” warned Old Misery. “When I paint for battle I go it alone and hit everything in sight.”
“Cleverest bit of salting I ever see!” cried an Ohio veteran, and he struck his ragged hat on the bar to accent his statement. “Phelps would have smelled a rat if it had been ledge gold. He knows ledges.”
“And I'll bet this minute he's swallering his pride and is scheming to find out where the nuggets come from,” spoke up another. “If you need help in throwing him off the track just say the word, partner.”
“I will, and thank you all kindly,” gravely assured Old Misery. “Mebbe I could tell him just where I got the gold and mebbe I'd have to think a lot first. I've took gold from so many different towns and miners for meat and tamed animals. Prob'ly would tell him wrong even if I wanted to tell him right.”
Wise glances were exchanged. The line of drinkers believed the mountain man was throwing dust.
One man estimated:
“Must been nigh to six hundred dollers used for salt. Wouldn't 'a' believed a tamed wild animal would fetch such a good price.”
Old Misery snorted in disgust.
“What you don't know 'bout wild animal prices would make the canon of the Colorado look higher'n the Rocky Mountains,” he jeered. “Got more'n that for the cub I just sold at Nevada City. Fetched dollar-a-pound as a pet. For meat to eat he'd been worth only a hundred. When I raise a b'ar like Bill Williams I've raised a good fifteen hundred dollars. Been offered that for him, and I could send him East and git two thousand. I'm a animal-prospector.
“When I bag some panther kittens they're just so many ounces of dust. Turned an old bald eagle loose that I'd been offered fifty dollars for in Nevada City. Worth a hundred if sold at the bay.”
This silenced all efforts to dig into his secret but left the men skeptical. Tom Tobin, who had been gloomily considering his glass, edged up the bar a few feet. Old Misery instantly took the hint and shifted his position to keep close to him.
Tobin whispered: “They'll trail you.”
“I'll lose 'em at Nevada City to-night,” murmured Old Misery. “All they can do is to pile into Grass Holler, but they won't find nothing. Five of their best men have prospected the Holler up 'n' down 'n' across. It's a medicine-place. No one can find it. Need any nuggets?”
“Not if I have to dig 'em.”
“It ain't so awful hard if your will is strong. I'll sneak you there and turn you loose.”
“And dig 'em out?”
“Not by a damned sight! Think I'm a root-'n'-grass Injun? Let's move on.”
They were followed by the men as they left the saloon. On the street the group scattered but found business was taking each individual wherever the mountain men went. As the latter showed no disposition to leave the Valley the espionage became organized, and instead of twenty men chasing them about only two or three held the trail. These were frequently relieved. Old Misery was much amused at the miners' tactics. Tobin took it more seriously.
Late in the afternoon he warned:
“Phelps has organized an outfit. He's chipped in. Feller with the red hair is one of his men. It'll be a race 'tween his men and t'others.”
This suspicion was strengthened by a fight between the red-headed man and one of those who had rejoiced over Phelps' defeat. The former lost the battle and disappeared, but was immediately replaced by two of Phelps' followers. These wore weapons aggressively and put themselves in the path of the rival spies as if seeking combat. Misery and Tobin were hopeful that the two factions would soon clash and fill the street with bloody disputes; but again the power of gold was exemplified. The two Phelps adherents were observed hobnobbing with the Independents in a most amicable manner; and when the defeated red-headed man joined the group he was greeted as a brother.
In great disgust Tobin declared:
“Phelps isn't all heyoka. He's holding the ribbons and driving those fools in a double-hitch. And they're not keen enough to know that if they could light on your medicine-place his would be the only crowd to git the plunder. Might's well be traveling to Nevada City.”
As they set out for the four-mile walk three of the saloon group and two Phelps men suddenly discovered they had business in that direction. Before they were quit of the Valley they noticed a new man among their trailers. He had none of the dried, white mud of the local prospector on his boots and clothing, nor did his hands suggest an acquaintance with pick or shovel. He was with the Grass Valley citizens and yet was not of them. Old Misery felt uneasy for the first time since leaving his foot-hills camp. The stranger must be a representative of the Vigilance Committee. And yet he carried no weapons in sight, nor did he look like a gun-man. Misery called a halt and filled and lighted his pipe. The trailers came up and passed on ahead. The stranger halted near Old Misery and bent over to dust his shiny shoes with a spotless handkerchief.
“Got a message for you,” he informed the mountain man without glancing at him.
“Erhuh. Does he want to fight with knives or guns?” gently asked Misery.
“Friendly message. My name's Roger. I'm playing at the theater. Message is confidential. Mustn't be seen giving it, or they'd do me mischief. Don't pick it up till after I'm gone.”
“Let her flicker,” encouraged Old Misery, stooping to tie his moccasin.
“On the ground,” said Roger, and turning on his heel he slowly sauntered back to the Valley.
Tobin stepped to the small wad of paper and flirted it with his foot to within reach of his friend. Old Misery's fingers secured it, and rising they resumed their journey. Two of the spies were returning to meet them, pretending to be looking for something.
“What you lost?” innocently asked Old Misery.
“Knife, worse luck,” growled one of the men, who was retained by Phelps.
“What sort of a knife?”
“Buckhorn handle with a 'W' scratched on it. Wouldn't 'a' lost it for fifty dollars!”
Old Misery clapped Tobin on the shoulder and cried:
“Didn't I tell you it was dropped by some one going this way? And you was so danged sure it was dropped by some one bound for the Valley. Never say again my medicine ain't wakan. Stranger, you'll find that buckhorn knife, with a 'W' scratched on it, stuck in a tree, this side the road, 'bout quarter of a mile below here. My pard 'n' me couldn't agree, so I left it there for the owner to locate.”
The two men hesitated and exchanged embarrassed glances.
Then the alleged loser mumbled, “Thanks,” and walked on toward the Valley.
The other explained to the mountain men:
“Reckon there's no need of me going with him. One man can carry a knife without help.”
“Sure he can if one can lose a knife,” heartily agreed Tobin. “But it's a mighty fine show of brotherly love when a man'll drop his business and help hunt for a knife.”
“But it was a simon-pure buckhorn-handled knife with a 'W' scratched on it,” reminded Misery. “And that's different.”
The spy hastily said:
“Time I was hurrying along. Got to meet a man in a rush.”
And he made off ahead of them.
Old Misery glanced back and chuckled:
“There's t'other feller. We oughter slow down and make him show us the knife.”
But the spy behind them had no intention of overtaking them, and when they halted, he did likewise.
Thus with watchers behind and ahead the two entered Nevada City. Tobin urged:
“Let's drop in somewhere and see what that writing is the man give you. Mebbe it's a witch-powder.”
“In a minute or two. We'll open it in Peters' room. Probably something he'll like to see.”
Giving no heed to their trailers they entered the Hotel de Paris and ascended to Mr. Peters' room.
The gambler opened the door and returned to bed, explaining:
“Had a long night. Lasted well into the morning. Two men from the bay. Cost me seven hundred dollars to learn they're looking for some one. They believe they're hot on his trail. How did your game pan out?”
Old Misery told him, and without giving him time to finish his laughing-spell he produced the wad of paper and informed:
“A stranger, a play-acting feller, slipped this into my hand in Grass Valley. Read it out loud to Tommy 'n' me.”
Mr. Peters smoothed out the paper and smiled on observing the neat chirography of a woman. He grinned broadly as he caught the aroma of some delicate scent. But once he perused the few lines his face grew grave and he swore softly.
“Listen,” he said; and lowering his voice almost to a whisper he read:
“Some one has told Phelps that Mr. Gilbert was in the El Dorado the night Murieta was there. It may mean nothing, or much. I understand you are his friend.”
The mountain men exchanged startled glances, and Tobin asked:
“Who wrote it?”
“There's no name hitched to it. But a woman wrote it,” replied Peters.
Old Misery said: “The younker knew Roger and the Montez woman. Come up on the boat to Sacramento with 'em. Roger is in the woman's play-acting outfit.”
“And it's believed Lola Montez will marry Phelps and his million,” quickly informed Mr. Peters. “So, Phelps told her. But who told Phelps?”
Old Misery had no idea.
“I'll have to find the younker and take him over the ridge,” he decided.
Mr. Peters slid out of bed and hurriedly began dressing.
“You mean young Gilbert's in town?” he cried as he slipped on his waistcoat and dropped a brace of derringers into the wide pockets.
“Went on ahead with a mule-load of grub this morning. Didn't come here. We'll overtake him afore he makes Grass Holler.”
“Then you should be traveling without any delay. The two men from the bay have hit the trail. If they learn as much as is in this note he'll have to go before the committee. And I'm afraid.”
Tobin spoke up and reminded:
“A parcel of men have been trailing us. They're curious-like to find out where Misery gits his nuggets. If we quit here before dark they'll trail us clear up to the hills.”
“Hell! Why did you have to show more nuggets?” snapped Mr. Peters. “You can't wait. Every minute is precious. Any minute may be the minute. I smelled trouble in that poker game last night. But I didn't think it was so close. Some one told Phelps the boy was in the gambling place. Told him mighty recent. He's told the woman.
“If word gets to the men from the bay— Why, they may know it even now! They may be on their way to your camp. You can't wait till dark, Misery. See here: this is how we will play the hand. Tobin is to go down-stairs and order a big dinner for the three of us. He'll talk loud. Then he'll go to the bar and order three drinks and say we'll be right down. The Grass Valley men will keep close to him.”
“And then what?” asked Tobin.
“That's all. You stick to the bar as long as they stick. By and by I'll look you up.”
“I read the signs. Old Misery is to hit the trail and I'm to stay behind and throw dust. See you up north sometime, old hoss, and settle our little difficulty.”
“After this trouble's over we'll have our fun if I have to travel to Hudson's Bay. Don't let anybody damage you afore we meet up again, you little runt.”
Tobin left the room to carry out his part of the plan. Mr. Peters stood in the doorway until he heard the order given for the dinner, the stentorian voice carrying far and suggesting whisky-exhilaration.
For good measure Tobin was loudly proclaiming:
“Make it the best. All the fixings. My pard, Old Misery, can buy this lodge and give it away and still have lots of ponies left.”
Motioning for Misery to remain, Mr. Peters closed the door. He was gone only a few minutes and when he returned he was composedly shuffling a stack of gold pieces from hand to hand, much as he would shuffle cards, and his broad face was placid and benevolent.
In a whisper he informed:
“The way is clear out the back of the house. Sent a friend to the bar and he reports Tobin is on duty and drinking with the Grass Valley men and acting very drunk. Now go, and don't bring the youngster down this way again. If it was anything except helping Murieta—”
“He's going plumb over the Sierra if it bu'sts up my camp. Took care of me last night like I was a baby. Tell Tom he won't lose anything by letting our fight wait— Little runt thinks I bit him a-purpose!”
Mr. Peters peered up and down the hall and then escorted Misery to the back-stairs and down to the kitchen.
“The help are backing my game. Not one will blab. Through the back door and good luck. If you are trailed you'll have to throw them off the track best you can.”
“You're a white man, Peters. I won't forget,” mumbled the mountain man; and he glided through the kitchen apparently unnoticed while the gambler returned to his room and threw himself on the bed.
Misery cleared the town without discovering any signs of the Grass Valley men. For several miles he walked rapidly, then slowed his pace, confident none was pursuing him. He came to a halt while passing through Willow Valley as a riderless horse rounded a bush grown bend, and came toward him. The animal was in a lather and had galloped some distance, and was betraying signs of weariness.
The mountain man stood in the narrow road and the animal slowed down and attempted to go around him. Quick as a panther the mountain man had him by the nose and in the next moment was in the saddle.
“Ching-a-ling's hoss, or I'm a liar!” muttered Misery as he quieted the animal. “No such good luck that the yaller-devil's been thrown and bu'sted his head. Now to save my legs a bit.”
And he reined the horse about and rode him up the valley. He covered several miles, then reined in on beholding a man walking toward him.
It was Ching-a-ling and he had his left arm in a sling improvised from a handkerchief.
Sliding to the ground Old Misery called out:
“Here's your nag. Better not ride if you can't keep the saddle.”
Ching-a-ling swore fluently in Spanish; then said: “I was not thrown, Senor Misery. I was afoot when this spawn of the devil ran away.”
“Thought you was tossed and hurt your arm. There's blood on the hanker. Who done it?”
Ching-a-ling gritted his teeth, then confessed:
“That hell-cat, Maria. Knifed me without any reason.”
“She had a reason. You talk straight, or I'll finish what she commenced,” growled the mountain man, his frosty eyes displaying lurid lights. “You was troubling her, damn you!”
“I say no, Senor Misery!” cried Ching-a-ling, his eyes watching the hand resting on the belt-knife. “That is not the way to talk to Manuel Vesequio. I did but ask the girl to marry me. Is that a crime? Is a man to be killed every time he asks a woman to become his wife?”
“Only once as a rule. But damn your nerve! You've got a Chinese girl for a wife already. Think you can fill your lodge with squaws?”
“It is not so,” shrilly denied the breed. “My wife has left me. She took the child and my little savings and went to San Francisco, where she is now hiding in some Dupont Street house. I shall never see her again. I am free to marry.”
“But not to marry Maria, you scum. Ever bother her again and I'll cut your arms off in the Dakota way. Now crawl on that hoss and show dust down the road.”
Ching-a-ling mounted, and turned his brownish-yellow face to stare down at the mountain man for a moment.
Then he softly said:
“But free to marry Ana Benites, perhaps. Good enough for her, perhaps.”
Before Old Misery could make reply the long spurs cruelly raked the tired animal, causing him to squeal in pain and gallop madly down the creek.
Old Misery instinctively threw up his rifle; then lowered it and mused:
“Just his wild talk. Sore's a burnt pup. He's too scared of Murieta to give the child away. Lawdy! But she's a spit-fire! What an old fool I was I didn't find out where he met her. She's prob'ly bound for Grass Valley to see the play-acting. I'll meet her and mebbe she'll talk.”
Gilbert traveled very leisurely and at noon made a long halt while he ate his dinner and allowed the mule to graze. Being ignorant of the packer's art he had not ventured to remove the load of provisions and the weight of the same being light the mule had made only half a dozen attempts to dislodge it by rolling.
“Lucky there's no eggs in it,” he told himself after correcting the mule for what proved to be the last time.
He tried to make himself believe he was waiting for the mule to rest, and all the while he knew he was lonely and was hoping the mountain men would be overtaking him before he made the night camp. At last he saw a figure down the trail and his hopes went up. Then he discovered the newcomer was a woman and something told him it was Maria.
Remembering their last meeting he was embarrassed and almost wished she had not overtaken him. She came up the slope with her easy, gliding step and nodded coolly. At first he believed she was angry with him and would have none of his company. Instantly he desired to break down her prejudice and vindicate himself.
“I forgot to tell Old Misery you were down in the Valley yesterday,” he greeted.
She halted, seated herself on a rock, and replied:
“Maria was not in Senor Gilbert's thoughts. He is too beeg a cabellero to theenk of women.”
“You know that's not true, Maria. I didn't see much of Mr. Misery. He went to bed very early—”
“Drunk,” she listlessly supplied.
“And this morning he was busy with two friends, strangers to me, and sent me on ahead with the mule.”
“You have not unpacked. That is ver' wrong,” she gravely remarked.
“Afraid I couldn't get the stuff back so it would stay. Too late now as I must be going. But he supposed you were coming down to-day. You didn't look him up and I didn't know. Well, it was your own business. So I didn't tell him. I had to look after him a bit.”
An incredulous smile twisted her red lips; then her eyes were hard as she reminded:
“I thought our gran' caballero was taking care of the Montez woman.”
“Nonsense! She's good as married to Phelps, the mining man.”
Her eyes grew very big and round at this; and for a count of five she stared at him fixedly. Her next move startled him. From her garter she pulled a slender knife and stabbed it several times into the earth. He watched her in amazement. Without glancing at him she quietly explained:
“A snake was in my path. I cut his arm.”
“Snakes don't have arms,” he began; then decided she must be speaking in metaphor, and added, “Some man bothered you? By George, Maria! Wish I'd been there! I'd have fixed him.”
“You?” she murmured, and laughed silently.
To his consternation her mood changed and she burst into a violent spell of weeping. Dropping the knife she bowed her head in her hands, and her slim body was racked with sobs until the coils of blue-black hair tumbled over her shoulders.
“Good heavens, Maria! What's the matter?” he gasped.
“Oh, I am a ver' bad girl. I have done a ver' great wrong. Senor Gilbert, you mus' go away.”
“If you insist,” he dully agreed. “But we're both traveling to Grass Hollow. I was hoping we might make it together.”
“That is not of what I speak,” she moaned. “You mus' go far away from Grass Hollow. Something says that men at the bay will soon know Senor Gilbert was in the El Dorado that night. The bay has a ver' long arm. In the hand is a noose. It is best Senor Gilbert goes away.”
“But I don't understand,” he cried, alarmed and bewildered. “It's impossible people in San Francisco should know I am here. If any one found out the truth Mr. Peters at Nevada City would hear it and let us know. Old Misery would surely know in time to warn me. Your nerves are unstrung, Maria. Old Misery will be along to-night. Plenty of time for him to hide me if any one tries to find me.”
His talk restored his confidence somewhat. Grass Hollow seemed to be very remote from the world. Reason told him danger could not be imminent without his friends discovering it. If there had been any risk Old Misery would never have permitted him to go down to the Valley. And yet he was uneasy.
She interrupted his musing by rising and saying:
“We mus' be going on. We mus' camp high up. This is too near Nevada City.”
And she replaced the knife, deftly arranged her hair and started on ahead.
Gilbert pulled up the picket pin and led the mule. She seemed to be in haste and often glanced over her shoulder, looking beyond him and down the rough way. He called after her to learn if she had eaten.
Her reply was:
“Faster! faster! Something tells me there is ver' much danger.”
Wishing Old Misery would overtake them, but fearing the mountain man was indulging in a spree, the young man's heart was heavy as he plodded along behind the girl. Their shadows grew longer and longer and stretched far up the slope ahead, and still the girl continued to lead the way. When she did halt and announced they would camp for the night Gilbert discovered they were in the ravine where the miners had overtaken him and Misery and near the spot where Reelfoot Williams had abandoned his purpose of holding them up. There was the little cabin where he had spent the night. He told her to make it her quarters and carried his own blankets to it. But she had left her own blankets there on the down-trip. While she was in the cabin he made afire and prepared to cook the evening meal. She joined him, strangely humbled, but insistent on cooking the evening meal.
“You are unhappy, Maria. I'm sorry,” he told her after they had eaten in silence.
“Ver' unhappy. I have done wrong,” she gravely replied.
A soft step sounded in the darkness beyond the fire-glow. The girl gave a thin scream and sprang to her feet, the slender blade clutched in her small hand. Gilbert was incapable of moving because of astonishment at the unexpected presence just beyond the flickering light. A chaos of unfinished questions surged through his mind. How had they found him so quickly? What would they do? Should he attempt flight in the darkness.
“That's right. Kill me. Kill every one,” called out the mountain man's voice. “I've hoofed it faster'n Fremont's lost outfit did, trying to overtake you two. Heave the knife and nail me.”
“Old Misery! Good!” cried Gilbert, at last becoming coherent. Then, ashamed of his first emotions, he endeavored to appear composed, and added, “Where's Tobin?”
The mountain man emerged from the darkness and grinned at the erect, alert figure of the girl.
“Tobin's skeered of me. Knows I'm going to lick him some day. Stayed behind. Maria, either use that weepin or put it up. And s'pose you tell me 'bout knifing Ching-i-ling. Met him with his arm in a sling.”
The knife vanished and the girl was softly explaining:
“He spoke ver' bad. One mus' not let some things be said. Is it not?”
“Reckon that's so. I'll cut his throat if he bothers you again. Younker, I've got a bad talk for you. Some one has blabbed in Grass Valley that you was in the El Dorado that night. We may have to go over the ridge.”
This bald announcement was like a band of ice closing about Gilbert's heart. He never really had believed he would be connected with the bandit's escape from the gambling-hall.
While he was trying to regain control of himself Old Misery was saying to the girl:
“Sorter sprised to see you here. Late to be starting for Grass Valley.”
“I was in Grass Valley yesterday. I am on my way back to Grass Hollow,” she sullenly told him.
The mountain man eyed her sharply, but only remarked:
“You oughter gone along with us. Never know you was there.”
Again she was quick to confess, saying—
“Senor Gilbert saw me and talked with me.”
“I didn't tell you, sir, because you'd been—having a good time. Then Tobin and Pipps arrived and the claim was bought back by Phelps, and everything was so hurried I forgot it.”
“It don't matter,” said Old Misery, his voice sounding absent-minded. “Maria's a free white. How did you like the play-acting, Maria?”
She clicked her small teeth and replied: “I am ver' queer. I did not go in.”
“That's tarnal strange. Went way down there a-purpose to see it, and then didn't. They say that Montez woman's a hum-dinger. She's going to marry Phelps.”
Without a word the girl turned and ran swiftly to the deserted cabin and closed the rickety door after her.
Old Misery idly fed some sticks to the coals and mused: “Beats all hell how many queer notions can be crammed into one white woman's head. Never can guess what that child will do next. Younker, know of any one in Grass Valley who'd be likely to know you was in the El Dorado?”
Gilbert wrinkled his brows and pondered over the question. Old Misery was the only one in Grass Valley who had knowledge of that episode except himself, and, of course, the girl Maria.
“I can think of no one. I can't imagine how any one could know it.”
“But some one does,” informed Misery, lowering his voice. “The Montez woman sent me a writing that Phelps told her. But how could he know? Some one had to tell him afore he could tell the woman. Last thing he said to me was that he'd even up for my salting that claim; and he was careful to say he wouldn't make a move against me pussonally. Sounded sorter blind. Seems clear now. But who told him? Why should he tell the Montez woman? Why did she tell me? There's three puzzlers for you to chaw over. Wish Bill Williams was here to help us.”
Despite his efforts to oust the suspicion Gilbert found himself realizing that he knew the answer to each of the three queries. And his gaze wandered toward the cabin. Passionate, and unstable as she was wilful, Maria had betrayed him. She had told Phelps the sinister truth while wrought up by jealousy.
Phelps, while suffering from the same incentive, had told the Montez woman. For some reason, perhaps because she could not assume the responsibility of sending a man to the noose, the actress had sent the warning through Old Misery. Yet Gilbert could not feel angry toward the girl. She was irresponsible as a child.
He repeated: “I can't imagine how any one in the Valley could have known the truth.”
“A blind trail,” grumbled the mountain man. “If I knew where it begun I might figger where it would end. We'll sleep on it and perhaps my new medicine will have the answer for me in the morning. You can sleep sound. You're safe this night.”
The sun was up when the two men awoke. Old Misery was impatient to be off, but Gilbert insisted they allow the girl to finish her sleep. The mountain man's reply was to walk to the cabin and rap smartly on the door. Then he pushed it open.
After a glance he turned and called out to Gilbert:
“Vamoosed through the winder. Knew she couldn't be in there sleeping with all them fat squirrels hooting over the roof. Can't make out what's got into her. Wonder if Tom Tobin is still at the bar with them fools from Grass Valley. He's a master hand with a bottle. Haven't yet thought of any one who could 'a' told Phelps about you?”
“Haven't an idea. Let's eat and be moving.”
And Gilbert could not keep his gaze from wandering down the ravine as he spoke. He was beginning to experience the fears of the hunted. Old Misery quickly rekindled the fire, cooked meat and made coffee.
When they sat down to eat he remarked:
“When you took on with my outfit you did as Peters said, told me everything. Sure you've kept up that habit, younker?”
“Everything that matters,” muttered Gilbert, but coloring furiously.
“I was wondering how that Montez woman was interested enough to send that warning,” mused Old Misery. “My new medicine has been prodding me to give it some thought.”
In a sudden burst of confidence Gilbert confessed his meeting with her and Phelps' jealousy.
“It meant nothing to me, or to her. She simply permitted me to walk with her to her boarding-house,” he insisted.
Old Misery prompted: “Maria must 'a' known about it. Mebbe she saw you two together.”
“I don't think so,” Gilbert stubbornly lied.
“Mortal queer. Phelps told the woman so she wouldn't smile on you any more. I've been thinking it was to git even with me. But he'd done it anyway to git rid of you. But who told him? Four persons know you was in the El Dorado: Peters, me, yourself, and Maria. The three of us was in Grass Valley yesterday. Younker, I never blabbed.
“If I was drunk as a b'iled Owl I couldn't 'a' done it. You didn't, not being plumb heyoka yet. Cabin door closed. Maria gone through the winder. Gone without waiting for us. Had a queer way of quitting our fire last night. Younker, you mean well, but you're a poor liar. Maria said you talked with her in Grass Valley.”
“It was nothing. We happened to meet—”
“And she got powerful mad at something, and that's why she wouldn't go and see the play-acting,” composedly continued the mountain man. “When she's r'iled 'bout so much she'd do most anything. Phelps saw you and the woman together. So did the girl. Then she saw Phelps watching. That settled your hash with her: she held Phelps up and told him about the El Dorado.”
“We don't know that. It's all guesswork,” feebly insisted Gilbert.
“And that's what my new medicine was trying to ding through my old head last night while you was asleep and that poor child was crawling through the winder. To make a real muss it takes a woman.”
Without further words he hurriedly packed the provisions on the mule and they took up their journey to the hidden hollow. They left the ravine and climbed an other bench and halted to examine the country below. A faint call caused the mountain man to shade his eyes and Gilbert to tremble with fresh fear.
“Just glimpsed him as he passed through the opening,” muttered the mountain man. “Rides alone. He'll show up again in a minute where the trail bends to make this level.”
Gilbert was for hurrying on but Old Misery shook his head.
“No danger from one man,” he growled. “There he comes! Sighted us afore we see him. He's signaling us to hold up.”
The horseman now was in full view, his horse making rather hard work of the path to the bench. He waved a big black hat, and the sun turned the brim of it into a circle of fire.
“Mexican. Got buttons of silver strung 'round his hat. Well, I'm always ready to listen to a talk.”
Following the zigzag path the tired horse labored up the slope.
Gilbert saw the man wore a bandage on his hand and wrist and warned, “It's Ching-a-ling!”
“No. Fall back and tree yourself. He brings a talk, but—”
He did not bother to finish. Standing behind the mule, with his rifle ready to shoot across the pack he raised a hand for the rider to stop at a distance of thirty feet.
The man slipped his hand out of the bandage and reined in.
“Three-fingered Jack!” softly exclaimed Old Misery.
Then in a loud voice, and speaking in Spanish, he demanded:
“What does Manuel Garcia want up here, where only eagles live?”
“He rides for one who is the strongest eagle of all,” promptly replied Joaquin Murieta's lieutenant. “You are the man called Old Misery?”
“I am that man. What talk do you bring to me?”
“A talk about Ana Benites.”
“Open your talk. This is no place for Manuel Garcia to rest his horse.”
“A dog has whispered Ana Benites' name in Nevada City,” hissed the Mexican. “He said she is called 'Maria.' Nevada City says a girl called Maria lives in your mountain camp. Americanos from San Francisco have heard the talk in Nevada. My horse is nearly dead in running to keep ahead of them.”
“Then the girl must go to Mexico. California is too small to hold her. I will send her to Mexico where she will be safe. Now give me the name of the man who told her name.”
And the mountain man's eyes flamed with a terrible purpose.
“Welcome to the name, Senor of the Sierra. But it will do you no good. There will be no names where he will be gone before you can take the girl to the Mexican line and return to look for him. He calls himself Manuel Vesequio. You call him Ching-a-ling. He was one of our spies. He has betrayed Ana Benites and shall die very soon. Just now men guard him against us; but Soon, very soon, he shall lose his head. Adios, senors.”
And nodding toward the tree where Gilbert was hiding he thrust his crippled hand through the bandage that concealed his loss of digits, pivoted his horse and plunged down the slope into a thick growth.
For a minute the mountain man was so beside himself with rage at the breed's treachery that he could not talk intelligibly.
Finally he mastered his wrath and said:
“I killed one of Joaquin's best men at the bay— That night. I'll kill him if I git a chance. They've overlooked my killing Scar-Face Luis because I was good to the girl. While she was in the Hollow she was a good girl, else I'd never gone to the bay to hunt for her and fetch her back. I wanted her to quit being Ana Benites and foller a honest trail. Now she must go to Mexico.
“And, younker, that damned Ching-a-ling is the one that sends her to Mexico. I told him what would happen if he bothered her again. I'll pay what I owe him. His mad made him heyoka. Made him forgit that Joaquin probably had other spies in Nevada City. For Three Fingered Jack to hear about it and have time to catch up with us shows a good-sized band of the robbers was near Nevada City, and that some spy didn't lose any time in taking word to 'em. Ching-a-ling killed hisself when he blabbed about Ana Benites. It may be me, or it may be one of Murieta's men that gits him. It don't make much difference which, 'cause he's good as dead.
“Now we'll push on afore some one rides up with word that Weymouth Mass is wanted by some one for finding a gold mine; or that somebody is after Bill Williams' pelt. Hell of a name my camp in Grass Holler is gitting. With so much to 'splain mebbe it's high time I was pulling out. One way of dodging trouble is move fast and always keep ahead of it. Mebbe I've been on this side the ridge too long