Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 06 - Sudden Gold-Seeker(1937) (5 page)

 
          
“Wonderfully,”
Lesurge told him, and meant it. “A fine actor was lost in you, Snowy.”

 
          
“Ah,
I got brains, I has,” came the complacent answer. “You reckon she swallowed it?”

 
          
“Hook,
line and sinker,” Paul assured him. “How do you know she resembles her mother?”
o “I don’t,” Snowy smirked, “but most gals like to think so.” At the Pioneer
the prospector found himself a popular person. Not only was he the uncle of the
most charming visitor Wayside had ever received but he owned a fabulously rich
gold-mine; Fagan had talked to some purpose. Never in Snowy’s sinful life had
so much free whisky been offered to him and he was preparing to enjoy himself
thoroughly when Lesurge intervened; a liquor-loosened tongue might well wreck
his plans.

 
          
“No
more now, Phil,” he said firmly. “You have business to talk over with Mary
presently.” Two of the company watched him follow Lesurge out of the saloon
with unbelieving eyes.

 
          
“That of skeezicks her uncle?”
Mason ejaculated
contemptuously. “The whale what found a home for Jonah couldn’t ‘a’ swallowed
that.”

 
          
“I’m
allowin’ Jonah must ‘a’ looked more appetizin’,” Sudden said soberly. “O’
course, Snowy might be the fella, but how did Mister Lesurge
get
wise an’ what’s his game?
was
he waitin’ here for the
girl, an’ where’s the real uncle? Also who wiped out her daddy?” His friend
looked at him in mock disgust. “Can’t yu think o’
no
more questions?”

 
          
“Shore,
there’s another,” Sudden grinned. “What are we goin’ to do about it?” Mason
spun round, his face alight. “Jim, did yu mean that `we’?” he asked.

 
          
“Why,
I got nothin’ to interest me about now,” was the careless reply, “an’ they tell
me gold-minn’ is a lazy way o’ gettin’ a livin’.”

 
          
“I
wish
I
knowed if she really believes in this scarecrow
relative,” Gerry reflected.

 
          
“Go
an’ ask her,” Sudden suggested. “She don’t look like she’d savage yu, though yu
can’t tell; women is same as hosses—the meekest-appearin’ is sometimes the one
to pile
yu ”

 
          
“Miss
Ducane would never say a harsh word to anyone,” Gerry reproved, and departed in
search of this paragon.

 
          
Greatly
to his relief he did not have to ask for her—she tripped out of the hotel just
as he arrived. She was pleased to see this
boy
who had
been chivalrous and attentive to her, and she said so, but when he bluntly
asked whether she was satisfied that Snowy was indeed the uncle she had come to
find, her smile vanished and a look of dignified surprise took its place.

 
          
“Have
you any right to put such a question?” she inquired, and when he could find no
answer, “What object could Mister Lesurge and that harmless old man have in
deceiving a girl who has nothing?” Mason could have replied that she had
herself, but his courage would not carry him so far, and as he did not know the
whole story of her pilgrimage could only mutter doubts about “that other fella.”

 
          
“Mister
Lesurge has been exceedingly good,” she said severely. “He is a gentleman.”

 
          
“Looks
to me more like a tin-horn gambler,” the boy burst out angrily.

 
          
Her
eyes grew stormy. “How dare you say such an outrageous thing?” she cried. “I am
afraid I have misjudged you. When I heard you had been engaged in a brawl
yesterday I was willing to believe it was not your fault, but I fear you must
be of a quarrelsome nature.” He could have told her that the trouble was on her
account, but he had his pride, and remained silent. One not vitally concerned
might have smiled at her rather prim seriousness, so out of keeping with her
budding beauty, but to Gerry Mason it was the end of a dream and it made him
reckless.

 
          
Leaving
her without another word, he went to the Pioneer. There Sudden found him an
hour later and one glance showed him the state of affairs.

 
          
“Tryin’
to buy the business a glassful at a time?” he asked sarcastically, and then, “So
Uncle is all wool an’ a yard wide, huh?”

 
          
“Shore,
an’ at that he ain’t so wide as Mister Lesurge,” Mason sneered
.“
Yu were dumb enough to mention him, o’ course?”

 
          
“I
on’y said he looked like a card-sharp an’ she r’ared right up—I thought she was
goin’ to eat me.”

 
          
“A
sad mouthful—she would have had a headache in the mornin’. Well, yu seem to
have made a mess of it, an’ that rotgut won’t help
none
.
Let’s vamoose.” As they stepped from the door of the saloon, Mason staggered
and nearly fell. And, of course, it was at that moment Miss Ducane and Lesurge
passed on the other side of the street. The girl gave them one glance of
mingled pity and disgust and went on, her head high.

 
          
“Your
young friend appears to be enjoying himself,” Lesurge commented.

 
          
“I
didn’t think he was that kind,” she replied sadly, a little conscious that she
might be responsible for the lapse.

 
          
“Oh,
cattlemen are all alike,” he said easily. “Women and drink are irresistible
magnets to them.”

 
          
“Yes,
I suppose so,” she returned, and wondered why she should regret it.

 
          
The
next few days were spent in preparing for the journey westwards and in the
course of them Mary Ducane came to know and like the old man she called “Uncle.”
Queer he undoubtedly was, but always, to her, kind and considerate. He was
eager to start for the goldfields and extravagant in his promises of what he
would do for her.

 
          
It
had been arranged that Lesurge and his “friend”—Fagan —who had expressed his
contrition to Miss Ducane and been prettily pardoned—should join them in their
journey to the Black Hills. They would not be alone. Tim Welder’s reports and
Snowy’s stories of lucky strikes in the old wild Californian days had aroused
the cupidity and adventurous spirit of some of the younger Waysiders, tempting
them to try their fortunes at the new diggings.

 
          
“Yu
fellas oughta come along,” Welder remarked to the two cowboys on the night
before the start was to be made. “Why, I reckon we’ll trail with yu,” Sudden
said, and saw the fleeting frown pass across the face of Lesurge. He looked at
the saloonkeeper. “I didn’t figure on stayin’ here, anyways.” The cowboys
consulted Snowy as a matter of course and when he had advised on the question
of outfit, he added: “I’m right glad you boys
is
comin’.
Don’t git too fur from me—fella never knows when he’ll need a friend:” With a
finger on his lips he stole away.

 
          
“Now
what d’yu make o’ that?” Gerry
queried,
when they were
alone. “O’ course, he’s weak in the head.”

 
          
“Mebbe,”
Sudden replied. “Did yu notice that he kept glancin’ over his shoulder an’ that
Lesurge an’ Angel-face wasn’t about? They ain’t pleased we’re goin’—not a
little mite, an’ that’s a good reason for not changin’ our minds.”

 
          
“An’
for takin’ Snowy’s tip to stay around.”

 
          
“Shore,
but I misdoubt we’re headed for trouble.”

 
          
“I
ain’t carin’,” the boy said. “I can shoot some, an’ I’m guessin’ yu know about
guns, seem’ yu tote a couple.”

 
          
“It’s
a matter o’ balance,” Sudden explained gravely. “One makes me walk all
lopsided. Allasame, I do savvy which end to point at the other man.”

 
          
“Yeah.
Yo’re forgettin’ I was present when yu put Angel-face
through his paces,” Gerry said, and regretted the reminder when he saw the
twinkle in the other’s eyes.

 
          
“I
ain’t,” Sudden replied. “How’s this strike yu for a tombstone? `Here lies Gerry
Mason.

 
          
He
turned his back.’ ” The boy laughed. It was impossible to be angry with this
drawling, lazy-appearing stranger who had saved his life, and of whom he knew
nothing.

 
          
For
weeks they had been traversing an apparently limitless, undulating waste of
short grass, burned brown by the sun, and broken here and there by shallow
ravines. There were no trees save occasional patches of cottonwoods by the
river-banks, but bushes of greasewood, sagebrush and prickly pear were more
plentiful. The nights were cold, the mornings clear and pleasant, but as the
day advanced the heat increased and the travellers were almost stifled by the
billowing clouds of sand and alkali dust churned up by the thousands of
plodding hoofs.

 
          
The
trail, scored and rutted by use, stretched out interminably to the horizon.
Twenty-five miles a day was good going, and unless an outfit broke down, no
attempt was made to pass it. If the daylight hours were long and monotonous,
nightfall brought plenty to do. Camp had to be made, the wagons ranged in big
circles, forage fetched—for the trail had been eaten bare for some distance on
both sides, wells dug—unless they were near a river—holes two or three feet
deep, into which the water slowly seeped.

 
          
Smudge
fires of greasewood or sage, aromatic but pungent and irritating, kept the
mosquitoes at bay, and then came supper—bacon, beans, cornbread, pies made of
dried fruits, and coffee.

 
          
The
Wayside contingent had joined the train two weeks earlier. The men had their
mounts, but a place was found for Miss Ducane in one of the leading wagons, to
which party her uncle, Lesurge, and Fagan also attached themselves. The cowboys
found a welcome with the traveller immediately behind, a raw-boned
agriculturist from Missouri, who had a small herd of cattle to serve as relays
for his team and to form a nucleus for the farm he hoped to establish.

 
          
For while some of the adventurers were headed for the goldfields,
more were genuine settlers, crossing the continent to people and till the
untamed soil of California and Oregon.
The Missourian counted
himself
lucky to get a couple of cowboys to handle his herd
and was well content to feed them in return for their service. They too did not
complain, for his wife was a good cook.

 
          
“Which
that woman’s pumpkin pie is liable to wreck the happiness of any single fella,”
was how Gerry put it.

 
          
“I’m
takin’ yore word,” Sudden said satirically. “Gawd knows yu’ve concealed enough
of it; I never seen anyone push pie into his face so fast an’ frequent.” Before
the outraged young man could find an adequate retort, he deftly switched the
conversation, “Seen Miss Ducane lately?” The red crept up under the boy’s
tanned skin. His fondness for riding ahead to “take a look at the country” had
not escaped his companion’s notice. He had seen her but—and this was where the
shoe pinched—she had not, apparently, seen him. So he lied brazenly.

 
          
“No,”
he replied carelessly, “
She
‘pears to stick to that
blame’ wagon like she was glued to it. Mister Lesurge is plenty active though,
gettin’ to be quite popular among the parties goin’ to the Black Hills.” Sudden
digested this in silence. Actually it was no news; he had already observed
Lesurge’s efforts to get acquainted with that section of his fellow-travellers
and had put it down to the fellow’s natural vanity.

 
          
“Fagan’s
got a new friend too,” Mason went on. “Shortish chap with bow-legs an’ a mean
eye, called `
Bandy
’.”

 
          
“What’s
the name o’ the other eye?” Sudden asked interest edly, and listened to a short
but pithy description of
himself
. “This hombre has a
Dago’s black greasy hair an’ his face looks like someone had pushed it in.”