How the West Was Won (1963) (16 page)

Grabbing his pistol, Cleve rolled out from under the wagon and started to rise to his feet, and at the same instant the animal, a huge bear, reared up, almost beside him. Angered by the plunging snorting horse, as well as by the man who suddenly appeared beside him, the bear gave an ugly growl. It was point-blank range when Cleve fired.

He shot once ... twice ... a third time. He fired as rapidly as he could squeeze off the shots.

Blinded by the flash of the gun, the bear lunged at him. It's paw missed a swipe that would have torn his head off, but it knocked him down with the lunge of its body.

Cleve rolled over, but managed to cling to his pistol, and the bear brought up with a thud against the side of the wagon, then turned, snarling and fighting, tearing at the wounds in its chest. The bear sprang over him without seeing him and Cleve fired the pistol upward into its belly, then he scrambled to his feet and backed up hurriedly as the bear struggled to rear up again. Bringing the pistol level, he squeezed the trigger again and the gun clicked, missing fire. All over the camp he heard cries and shouted questions. He stood flat-footed, amazed that the bear did not charge.

He had no extra cylinders with him. They were all in the pockets of his coat or in his saddle pockets. Carefully, he backed away another step, straining his eyes toward the spot near the front wheel where the bear had been. Cleve? Cleve? Are you all right? It was Lilith. He waited, slowly lowering the pistol, fearful of making a sound that might provoke another charge.

Several armed men came running. What's happened? What was it? they called. Cleve tossed fuel on the fire and some of the evergreen branches blazed up. The bear lay where it had fallen against the front wheel of the wagon, and the men approached it gingerly, their weapons ready.

Lilith and Agatha emerged from their wagon. Lilith ran to him, her eyes wide and frightened. Cleve? Are you all right? Are you sure? Gabe French caught hold of the bear by the paw and pulled it away from the wagon wheel. It lay there, an inert mass. Three slugs had torn into the bear's chest, slightly left of center, and the three points of entry could have been covered by a man's hand.

One of the men glanced at the holes, then up at Cleve. Man, that's shootin'! It was the fourth and last shot that had saved his life, for it had gone into the bear's stomach and had broken his spine. Despite the killing shots in the chest, the bear might finally have killed him had it not been for that He had been lucky ... very lucky indeed.

Obviously, the bear had not been looking for trouble, but had merely been rummaging among the buckets and gear around the wagon, drawn by the smell of food. The flash of Clove's gun had blinded it, and probably it had been as eager to get away as he would have been. It was that paralyzing final shot that had kept him from a bad mauling-or worse.

He heard scraps of talk ... nerve and tackled a bear, hand-to-hand and shootin' like that ... in the dark, too. But he knew he had been no hero. He had been frightened, and he had done what had to be done. Had he attempted escape, the bear might easily have turned on him. When he found the bear that close he had no alternative but to shoot.

But the story was one that would be told and retold wherever any of these men gathered.

Lilith caught his arm. Cleve? Oh, Cleve, you can't leave now! What if that bear had come and you had not been here? What would we have done? He looked down at her, his hands on her arms, and something inside him made unspoken answer: Why, you'd probably have taken that rifle of yours, drilled him dead-center, and then gone back to sleep. He said it to himself, but to her he said, Yes, I'd better stay. I can't leave you alone. The truth of the matter was, he decided, that he didn't want to go, anyway. He wanted to stay here, where Lilith was. After all, he had been gambling for years, and where had it gotten him? No use cashing in his chips when he was this close to seeing what the pot held.

He would stay on to the end. After all, a girl like this, with a gold claim?

What kind of a fool had he been to think of leaving?

Chapter
11

Rabbit's Foot Gulch, known to all and sundry as the Rabbit or simply Rabbit, was a ragged gash where the mountain seemed to have been split apart by some gigantic earth-shudder. Cleft deep into the mountain, its sides rose sheer from the creek in the bottom to the rim more than a thousand feet above. Along the rapid, shallow creek where the canyon widened out were a few rock houses, split-log shacks, or mere dugouts where the gold-seekers huddled when not employed in panning, working their cradles, or cleaning sluice boxes. Here and there some miner had diverted a portion of the stream to wash off the sand and gravel shoveled into the sluice box and leave the gold behind, caught in the riffles in the bottom of the sluice box. The trail, if such it could be called, wound precariously around the huts, along the creek edge, up on the high bank, and back down to the bottom of the stream itself.

Cleve van Valen, with Lilith beside him, rode a cautious way among the laboring men. Several times one or the other was hailed by some former acquaintance, and at their appearance work ceased for the time. Women were few at any time, and such women as Lilith were scarce at all times. Men stopped their work to stare, shielding their eyes against the sun.

It was mid-morning. Most of the miners worked with shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing their red woolen undershirts. Most of them wore clumsy, flat-heeled boots, though here and there a man wore moccasins or riding boots, or worked in bare feet. To a man, they were bearded, unshaved, mostly unbathed, and armed. Those who did not wear a gun while working had one lying close at hand. They were a rough, tough, good-natured crowd of individualists, each one as independent as his physical strength or his gun could make him. Until a few days or weeks before, none of them had been known to any of the others, and a few weeks from now each would be off on some other creek, following the chance of gold.

One husky miner recognized Lilith. Hey, Lil! Sing us a song! She waved, remembering the man from St. Louis, where he had been especially wary of the law. We're in a hurry, boys! Next time! Come on, Lil! the bearded, hairy-chested man from St Louis yelled cheerfully.

Tune up! Sing us a song!

She laughed at them. What shall I sing for him, boys? What Was Your Name in the States?' All within hearing roared with laughter, and the bearded one made believe as if to duck a blow.

Cleve turned in the saddle. If your claim peters out, you've still got a following. You might make more singing.

The faint trail they followed turned up through the pines and away from the creek, which here filled the bottom of a canyon so narrow the sun could only strike the water at midday.

It was not much further. Cleve led the way, but he sat half turned in the saddle so as not to present his back completely to Lilith. I'll go to San Francisco, she said, and I'll buy a home on Nob Hill, and I'll have my own carriage and driver. I'll have all the linen and silver and cut glass I've ever dreamed of, and I'll never sing for a crowd of men again. After a minute or two she added, I'll have a concert grand, and when I wish to sing I will sing for myself ... or my friends. And will you sing for me, Lilith?

Yes, I'll sing for you whenever you like, and I'll wear fine clothes and give dinners for the people I like, and perhaps I'll go to New York, even to Paris or Vienna. Have you been to Vienna, Cleve?

To Vienna, to Innsbruck, Bayreuth, Weimar, Monte Carlo ... you will like them, Lil.

The trail took a long bend, and far ahead of them they could see the widening of the canyon where lay the mining claim. They could ride abreast now, and they rode without talking. So much lay ahead of them, and soon there would be so much they could leave behind.

The trail dipped down, and they saw the scar of rubble where waste rock had been dumped from the mine tunnel.

Below, a rocker stood idle upon the bank of the creek, and a small stream poured into the creek from the sluice box. Against the mountain, under a few ragged trees, stood a flimsy lean-to; a bearded man sat on a stump near the door, smoking a pipe. A few feet away a squaw was grinding corn in a metate. As they drew near, neither of the two looked around or changed their position. The man, immobile as the rocks themselves, was staring at the sunlight on the waters of the creek.

Cleve and Lilith drew up. She glanced quickly at the dark opening in the face of the mountain, then looked around her with sharp disappointment. Suddenly, she knew not where from, came a chilling fear.

We're hunting for a Mr. Huggins, Cleve said.

You found him.

This is Lilith Prescott.

So I figured. They tol' me she was a looker. He gestured with a careless hand, the nails black with grime. It's all here, just like ol' Brooks staked it out. He must've had twenty men workin' on it at one time.

Where are they now? Lilith asked. Who's digging the gold?

You talk about gold-you never did see such gold as this here claim produced. Just a pocket, though ... cleared about forty-two hundred before she played out.

The fear was reality now. Cleve glanced quickly at Lilith. Her mouth was tight against the shock, and the realization of what it would mean to Cleve. Mr. Brooks, he spent about three hundred before his heart give out, an' I put up a nice piece for a brass-handled casket ... they come mighty dear, away out in the hills, like this. The rest an' there's mighty little of it, I figure you owe me for settin' on the claim. He squinted his eyes at them. That's only fair, ain't it?

Cleve turned his horse. Do you want to take his word for it or shall I take a look? I believe him.

The bearded man moved at last. He got up from his chair. You're welcome to look, but there's mighty little to see. Me an' the woman, we're takin' out. I mean there's nothin' here for a body, an' we favor the far-off timber. I'm a man likes to hunt.

Without a word, Lilith pointed her mount back down the trail. After a few minutes she said quietly, It's like you said, Cleve-I can always sing. I think I'll make my start right back there ... Next time,' I promised them. Well, this is our way back-back to reality.

Roger Morgan heard the sound of music before he reached the tent theatre. The first thing he saw upon entering was a long bar, behind which four bartenders worked desperately to fill the orders of men who crowded three and four deep at the bar. There were Spanish-Californians in wide-bottomed trousers and buckskin jackets, there were Chinese, Chilenos, Irish, Germans, French-every race and every nationality could be found in the crowd.

He stepped to one side of the door and looked around. Several games were going, and at the far end of the tent there was a stage, empty now. Several musicians sat in chairs bunched at one side of the stage, drinking beer. Jackass Hill was booming. One pocket of quartz was producing from a hundred to three hundred dollars a day; and another miner in just six weeks had taken ten thousand dollars out of a plot one hundred feet square. Dozens of prospect holes along the mountain had paid enough to make their owners rich-at least temporarily. They called it Jackass Hill from the braying of the jackasses in the pack trains as they passed up the hill on their way to the mines. It was a wild, free-spending crowd. Not everybody in that crowd had struck it rich, but everybody had caught the fever, so they all acted like it, and as long as it lasted they spent money like it.

Morgan worked his way through the crowd, scanning the tables for a familiar face, and the face he half expected to see was the one he hoped not to see. Suddenly, to the sound of an accordion and a fiddle, Lilith appeared on the stage singing What Was Your Name in the States? Roger Morgan found an empty chair and dropped into it, watching her as she sang. The games had slowed, and here and there men had even ceased to drink. One and all, they watched her. There was about her none of the brassy boldness of the usual tent-theatre and gold-country performers. She looked fresh, young, and lovely. She was like a girl from home, yet with that extra something that stirred the blood of every man in the huge tent. As she went on from song to song, moving gracefully about the stage, her eyes moved from man to man throughout the crowd, making each one feel that she sang to him alone. Finally Morgan could stand it no longer. He got up and left the tent, circling around toward the familiar prairie schooner which now served as a dressing room and living quarters. He was still waiting there when she left the tent. Miss Prescott?

She started to pass by, then recognized him. Oh, hello, Mr. Morgan. Sorry I can't invite you into the wagon. We're cramped for space. This ain't no life for a woman like you. I heard your mine was played out and your fancy friend had left you. Where's he now? Cleve? I heard he was in Hangtown.

You really mean that no-good went off and left you? He left me, yes, but I don't agree that he's no good. Cleve is Cleve, that's all.

Morgan dug a boot toe into the earth. You're a perplexin' woman, Miss Prescott. When a skunk needs killin' ... if you'd left me alone I'd have run that gambler clean off the wagon train. Might have saved a lot of trouble. He pulled his weight, Mr. Morgan. Even you admitted that. As for running Cleve off ... he doesn't run easily, Mr. Morgan. There are some Cheyennes who could tell you that.

I ain't denyin' he can shoot, but he went off an' left you. What kind of a man is that?

All my life, Mr. Morgan, I have wanted a rich husband. Can I blame him for wanting a rich wife? We both may have been born for the poorhouse-at least I am beginning to suspect so-but we're not the kind to like it. She turned toward the wagon. I must change.