Bad Man's Gulch (26 page)

He chose byways and alleys. Most of all, he wished to avoid a glance at the face of the girl, by any chance. Yet he could not help wondering at the strange cleverness with which Grimm had penetrated his secret. Indeed, he himself had not really known how deeply the girl was lodged in his heart. Certainly she had not been overkind to him. But she had been something utterly new—a sort of food to which he was not accustomed. He felt that, even by thinking of it, he could come to need her more than he needed the breath of life in his nostrils.

So, hedging about the long, narrow town by the alleys and the byways, he passed half a dozen lean-tos. He gave Rob the spur and let him speed down the road. He rushed past the first lean-to and the second. But glancing at the third, he saw Louise Berenger swinging an axe to subdue a refractory stump that she was converting into firewood. Instinctively he
leaned a little over the pommel of the saddle and drove the spurs home again. And at that instant she lifted her head and looked down the road.

He told himself that it would be the act of a guilty hound to slink out of her sight in this hasty fashion. So he sat back in the saddle and drew rein. The horse came to such a swift, sliding halt that he felt the cloud of dust that he had raised overtake him and beat, like the hot, soft wing of a moth, against the back of his neck.

She rested the axe on the stump and stared at him, so what could he do but ride up?

“You're not in trouble, I hope?” asked Louise Berenger.

“Oh, no.”

“You seemed in a hurry to leave,” she said gravely. “And I thought . . .”

She stopped sharply, and he rescued her from embarrassment by saying, with his smile: “Why, you thought that perhaps I'd slipped out from under a fight again?”

She looked down, her face rather flushed. Then she said: “I think that I was rude to you, as we were riding in. I didn't mean to be. Only . . . I didn't understand.”

“I knew it.” He nodded. “It sounded bad, too. Only . . . would you mind telling me . . . do you approve of fighting?”

“I?” she asked, as one who would like to dodge a question. “No, I don't think so . . . only . . . why, I can't imagine turning one's back on trouble.” She added in haste: “But I'm not giving advice! I'm only . . . why, you understand your own affairs much better than I can. But I should think that your heart would burn in you, sometimes.”

“Sometimes it does,” said Melendez. “Sometimes
it burns in me, right enough. And . . . look here, are you keeping house?”

“Yes.”

“Might I ask,” he said grimly, “who would've invited you to come up here to a camp like this?”

She smiled faintly. “We didn't guess what the place was, my father or I. Because Father is a good deal of a dreamer, you see . . . such a dreamer that he's disappeared completely. He has been gone over twenty-four hours. He may have found a book and sat down to it. He's that kind.” She kept up her smile, but it was obviously a hollow effort.

“He's disappeared?” echoed Melendez, opening his eyes.

But she hastened to change the subject. “I have something to apologize for,” she said. “That is, perhaps I don't need to mention it if you are really leaving the gulch?”

“I was figuring on leaving it, but, just lately, I've changed my mind,” he said firmly. He thought of Hans Grimm. The very devil was in that fellow; he had seen the future so clearly. But a man's work, certainly, was opening before him. If he should stay here to take up some of the burden of this girl, there would be enough to fill his hands.

Her father gone for over twenty-four hours! He thought of Slosson's Gulch and all that was in it. Not that he had had a chance to see a very great deal, but he had been in other mining centers before, and he knew what was to be expected from them. When strange things happened, one could be justified, generally, in putting the very worst possible construction upon it.

As to Mr. Berenger, Pete had not the least doubt that the man lay somewhere dead, that he would never return to his daughter, no matter how long
she waited here, keeping the shack awaiting his coming.

“You have changed your mind?” the girl repeated rather ruefully.

“Yes,” he said, growing firmer and firmer in his decision. “I'm staying in Slosson's Gulch.”

“Then,” she replied, “I have to tell you. You see that little lean-to down the way . . . where that pit is opening?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“I had trouble with the men there . . . six of them . . . very rough fellows . . . and one of them a gambler named Legrain who is a real desperado, I've heard since. In the midst of an argument with them . . . when they seemed to taunt me with being a woman and alone . . . why, I'm dreadfully ashamed to admit it . . . but I used your name.” She was flaming. And she could not go on.

“It's all right,” he said soothingly. “There ain't any need of you worrying about it.”

“No, you don't understand,” she insisted. “I used your name to
threaten
them.”

“Ah?”

“Yes, and, as a matter of fact, I want you to know . . . that these men are
dreadfully
dangerous! I don't have foolish frights about people . . . but when I remember all their faces, I have to beg you to forgive me for getting you into such danger with . . . only your name just slipped into my mind. I was reaching out to find something to strike them with. I do hope that you understand and pardon me.”

“Hush, hush, hush,” he said, raising his hand as though he was putting a child at rest. “Now there ain't anything in all of this to bother you at all. There ain't a measly thing, Miss Berenger. As a matter of fact, I'll tell you that I've met up with Legrain
already, and that him and me have settled things up fine. Really friendly.”

“Ah, you knew him, then?”

“Why”—he dodged—“I met him right after I got into town, and so there's nothing, you see, for you to worry about.”

She sighed a little, and then laughed a little. “It is very good to hear you say it,” she said. “And then, if that's true, I'm tremendously glad that you're to stay a while in Slosson's Gulch.” She did not give a reason, but her eyes misted a little as she looked toward the deepening evening that was settling over the mountains.

“Yes,” he said, “I think that I'll stay.” He reached for the axe and took it from her hand. And thinking of Hans, he wondered if the gambler could be right? Could this be arrived at by mere calculation? Was it not the purest chance that he should have blundered into sight of her as he was fleeing from the town? He whirled the axe. At one powerful and dexterous blow he cleaved the root in twain, at which she had been drudging helplessly.

Seated on a rock before the lean-to, he heard the story of the coming to Slosson's Gulch and the disappearance of her father.

“But,” said Melendez, “what was his idea in taking the chunk of gold quartz along with him when he went to file his claim? Did he want to raise money to work the mine?”

“No,” said the girl. “But he took it . . . simply because it pleased him, I suppose.”

Melendez stared helplessly at her.

“Was it wrong?” she asked.

“No, not wrong, but sort of childish. I'd as soon show raw meat to starved wolves as pay dirt to this gang in Slosson's Gulch.” He became silent, turning the idea in his mind. “The people in the gulch know that your father made a pretty rich strike. He must have showed the ore to everyone he met.” He paused again, frowning.

But she said: “I think I've guessed it. Someone saw the ore and found a way of taking it . . . and disposing of my father! You need not be afraid of telling me that.”

He looked straight into her face and saw that she did not flinch. “In a town like this,” he admitted gravely, “when a man disappears, it always means that there's a chance the worst sort of a thing may have happened. But you can't be sure. They'd do murder for the sake of getting a rich claim. But they
wouldn't
do a murder for the sake of a piece of rock with some streaks of gold in it. When does the claim office say that he filed his holding?”

“He never reached there.”

He started. “Very well.” Melendez nodded. “Tonight, I start on through the town and find out what I can about where he was last seen. Are you afraid to stay here alone?”

“No,” she answered. “I have a rifle and I know how to shoot.”

He looked up and down the ravine. It was growing dim and the yellow faces of campfires showed here and there; the scent of wood smoke came through the windless air.

“If there is any sign of trouble,” he said, “while I'm away, the thing for you to do is not to trust to weapons. In a pinch, you holler as loud as you can. There is hounds in this place, but there is a pretty large and liberal sprinkling of real white men, too. They'd come through any sort of a storm if they heard a woman calling for 'em. But leave the rifle be. You understand?”

She nodded.

“There is three or four camps within earshot of you. Remember that and you can feel safe. As for Legrain and his gang, they're rough, but I don't think that they'll bother you . . . not after the understanding that I've had with 'em. You can rest easy about that.”

“I feel like a child,” she admitted, “since you have
taken charge of everything. It is all in your hands, now. And. . . .”

He stopped her, as a tremor crept into her voice. “Here is a crew that means some sort of mischief . . . and who to?” he murmured.

Up the road came a compact throng of men. As they neared the shack, they increased their pace. Then they gathered in a loosely flung semicircle in front of the place. Louise Berenger stood bolt upright and clutched at the shoulder of her companion.

“What
does
it mean?”

As though to answer that question, a voice from the crowd called: “Melendez, come away from the girl and step out here to talk for yourself!”

Then she saw that there were naked weapons in every hand in that crowd, not revolvers only, but terrible, broad-mouthed shotguns and repeating rifles, all carried in positions from which they could be swiftly slung into action.

“You won't go?” whispered the girl.

But she felt the arm beneath her hand turn into quivering iron, and like iron was the voice that answered her: “I'll just have a few words with 'em.”

He stepped from her and stood before them.

“Melendez,” said the spokesman—who nevertheless, as she saw, did not step out in advance of the rest—“we've decided that the gulch has had about enough of you. You slide out tonight and you keep going. You hear us talk?”

He made a pause, and in that silence the head of Melendez turned slowly from side to side. He seemed to be studying them with a grave intentness.

“Gents,” he said, “are you all errand boys for Legrain?”

It brought a snarl from them. “We've had enough of gunfighters and wild men in these parts,” said
the spokesman hotly. “This here town has decided to settle down and we're the vigilance committee that's been appointed to take care of law and order. We're beginning on you, Melendez. You talk turkey or you hang, do you hear?”

“Sure,” said Melendez, “I hear what you got to say. I hear it all fine.”

He spoke so mildly, that the spokesman of the crew now boldly advanced. “You could herd some of the boys out of Grimm's place,” he said, “and you could mop up the floor with Legrain, but we're different from them. . . .”

“One minute,” broke in Melendez. “It seems to me that I remember how you dived for the door and got stuck there. You was one of the first to run, if I remember right.”

The spokesman obviously winced. Half of his strength was stolen from him by this unlucky remembrance. “You lie,” he said weakly. “Now let's hear what you intend to do about leaving, Melendez? And let's hear quick!”

Melendez took another step forward. “I'll tell you all about it,” he said gently. “I was aiming to get out of this town right quick, because I was afraid that there might be some men in it. Now I see that I was wrong. There
ain't
any men in it. There's only swine! As for the lot of you, why, sons, I laugh at you. Except that you raise a dust right in front of me. And I'd rather have you raising a dust farther up the road . . . back toward town . . . you understand? Now break and scatter!”

A gun was in his hands as he said this—a gun poised and leveled at their heads. And in reply there was a quick flashing of weapons all around the circle.

It seemed to the girl that if any man in that crowd
had had the courage to fire a shot, no matter how blindly, the rest would instantly have turned loose a flood of bullets that would have swept Melendez to an instant death. But no bullet was fired. The guns that were half raised, wavered down again. Two or three men in the front side-stepped and pressed back. Those in the rear gladly turned with them. The remaining front rank felt that it was being deserted under the cold eye and the steady gun of this man-slayer.

They turned, also. A little panic broke out in them, as well. Some weaker nature shouted with sudden fear and bolted to the right. Others followed—some scattered straight down the road. Others fled to the left-hand field.

Presently there was nothing left as a token of their coming except a stinging scent of alkali dust that trailed through the smoky air.

It seemed to the girl the sheerest sort of a miracle. Yet she did not wonder that they had fled. Even from the back of Melendez, as he stood threatening the others, she had felt, as it were, the shooting of lightnings.

He whirled about on his heel. “I'm gonna ride to the ravine,” he said gruffly. “I'll take a look at the spot where you say that your father spotted the vein. If there's people on that claim, now, you can lay to it that your father is a dead man. If there's nobody on it, you can lay to it that somewhere in Slosson's Gulch they're trying to squeeze the information out of him as to where that claim of his might be, and where he got his ore sample. Good night, Miss Berenger.”