The Claim Jumpers - Stewart Edward White
"How about the woman--Arthur's wife? She'll give you trouble."
"She has locked herself in her cabin already. I will assist her to
continue the imprisonment."
Fay laughed outright. "And you expect, with one arm and wounded, to
feed four people, keep them in confinement, and at the same time to
relocate eighteen claims lying scattered all over the hills! Well,
you're optimistic, to say the least."
"I'll do the best I can," repeated Bennington doggedly.
"And you won't ask help of a friend ready to give it?"
"Not as a friend."
"Well," Fay chuckled, apparently not displeased, "you're an obstinate
young man, or rather a pig-headed young man, but I don't know as that
counts against you. I'll help you out, anyway--if not as a friend, then
as an enemy. You see, I have my marching orders from someone else, and
you haven't anything to do with it."
Bennington bowed coldly, but his immense relief flickered into his face
in spite of himself. "What should we do first?" he asked formally.
"Sit here and wait for the kids," responded Jim.
"Who are the kids?"
"Friends of mine--trustworthy."
Jim rearranged Bennington's coverings and lit a pipe. "Tell us about
it," said he.
"There isn't much to tell. I knew I had to do something, so I just held
them up and made them get down the shaft. I didn't know what I was
going to do next, but I was glad to have them out of the way to get
time to think."
"Who plugged you?" inquired Fay, motioning with the mouthpiece of his
pipe toward the wounded shoulder.
"That was Arthur. He had a little gun in his coat pocket and he shot
from inside the pocket. I'd made them drop all the guns they had, I
thought."
"Did you take a crack at him then?" asked Fay, interested.
"Oh, no. I just covered him and made him shell out. As a matter of fact
I don't believe any one of them knew I was hit."
Fay smoked on in silence, glancing from time to time with satisfaction
at the youth opposite. During the passage of these events the day had
not far advanced. The shadow of Harney had not yet reached out to the
edge of the hills.
"Hullo! The kids!" said Fay suddenly.
Two pedestrians emerged from the lower gulch and bent their steps
toward the camp. As they came nearer, Bennington, with a gasp of
surprise, recognised the Leslies.
The sprightly youths were dressed just alike, in knickerbockers and
Norfolk jackets of dark brown plaid, and small college caps to
match--an outfit which Bennington had always believed would attract too
vivid attention in this country. As they came nearer he saw that the
jackets were fitted with pockets of great size. In the pockets were
sketch books and bulging articles. They caught sight of the two figures
on the ore heap simultaneously.
"Behold our attentive host!" cried Jeems. "He is now in the act of
receiving us with all honour!"
Bennington's face fairly shone with pleasure at the encounter. "Hullo
fellows! Hullo there!" he cried out delightedly again and again, and
rose slowly to his feet. This disclosed the fact of his injury, and the
brothers ran forward, with real sympathy and concern expressed on their
lively countenances. There ensued a rapid fire of questions and
answers. The Leslies proved to be already familiar with the details of
the attempt to jump the claims, and understood at once Fay's brief
account of the present situation, over which they rejoiced in the
well-known Leslie fashion. They exploded in genuine admiration of
Bennington's adventure, and praised that young man enthusiastically.
Bennington could feel, even before this, that he stood on a different
footing than formerly with these self-reliant young men. They treated
him as familiarly as ever, but with a new respect. The truth is, their
astuteness in reading character, which is as essentially an attribute
of the artistic temperament in black and white as in words and phrases,
had shown them already that their old acquaintance had grown from boy
to man since last they had met. They knew this even before they learned
of its manifestation. So astounding was the change that they gave it
credit, perhaps, for being more thorough than it was. After the
situation had been made plain, Bennington reverted to the
unexpectedness of their appearance.
"But you haven't told me yet how you happen to be here," he suggested.
"I'd as soon have expected to see Ethel Henry coming up the gulch!"
"Didn't you get our letters?" cried Bert in astonishment.
"No, I haven't received any letters. Did you write?"
"Did we write! Well, I should think so! We wrote three times, telling
you we were coming and when to expect us. Jeems and I wondered why you
didn't meet us. That explains it. Seems funny you didn't get any of
those letters!"
"No, I don't believe it is so funny after all," responded Bennington,
who had been thinking it over. "I remember now that Davidson told the
others he had been intercepting my letters from the Company, and I
suppose he got yours too."
"That's it, of course. I'll have to interview that Davidson later.
Well, we used to train around here off and on, as I told you once, and
this year Jeems and I thought we'd do our summer sketching here, and
sort of revive old times. So we packed up and came."
"I'm mighty glad you came, anyway," replied Bennington fervently.
"So'm I. We're just in time to help foil the villain. As foilers Jeems
and I are an artistic success. We have studied foiling under the best
masters in the Bowery and Sixth Avenue theatres."
"Where's Bill?" asked Jim suddenly.
"Will be around in the morning. You're to report progress at once.
Didn't dare to come up until after the row. Dreadful anxious though.
Would have come if Jeems and I hadn't forbidden it."
Bennington wondered vaguely who Bill might be, but he was beginning to
feel a little tired from the excitement and his wound, so he said
nothing.
"The next thing is grub," remarked Fay, rising and gathering his pony's
reins. "I'll mosey up to the shack and see about supper. You fellows
can sit around and talk until I get organized."
He turned to move away, leading his horse.
"Hold on a minute, Jim," called Bert. "You might lend me your bronc,
and I'll lope down and set Bill's mind easy. It won't take long."
"Good scheme!" approved Jim heartily. "That's thoughtful of you,
Bertie!"
He dropped the reins where he stood, and the pony, with the usual
well-trained Western docility, hung his head and halted. Bert arose and
looked down the shaft.
"Supper will be served shortly, gentlemen," he observed suavely. He
turned toward the pony.
"Bert," called Bennington in a different voice, "did you say you were
going down the gulch?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to do something for me?"
"Why, surely. What is it?"
"Would you just as soon stop at the Lawtons' and tell Miss Lawton for
me that it's all right! You'll find the Lawton house----"
"Yes, I know where the Lawton house is," interrupted Bert, "but Miss
Lawton, you said?"
"Don't you remember, Bert," put in James, "there is a kid there--Maude,
or something of that sort?"
"No, no, not Maude," persisted Bennington, still more bashfully. "I
mean Miss Lawton, the young lady."
He felt that both the youths were looking keenly at him with dawning
wonder and delight. "Hold on, Bert," interposed James, as the other was
about to exclaim, "do you mean, Ben, the one you've been giving such a
rush for the last two months?"
"Miss Lawton and I are very good friends," replied Bennington with
dignity, wondering whence James had his information.
Bert drew in his breath sharply, and opened his mouth to speak.
"Hold on, Bert," interposed James again. "There are possibilities in
this. Don't destroy artistic development by undue haste. What did you
call the young lady, Ben?"
"Miss Lawton, of course!"
"Daughter of Bill Lawton?"
"Why, yes."
"Oh, my eye!" ejaculated James.
"And you have eyes in your head!" he cried after a moment. "You have
ears in your head! Blamed if you haven't everything in your head but
brains! She's a good one! I didn't appreciate the subtlety of that
woman before. Ben, you everlasting idiot, do you mean to tell me that
you've seen that girl every day for the last two months, and don't know
yet that she's too good to belong to Bill Lawton?"
Bert began to laugh hysterically.
"What do you mean!" cried Bennington.
"What I say. _She_ isn't Bill Lawton's daughter. Her name isn't Lawton
at all. O glory! He don't even know her name!" James in his turn went
into a fit of laughing. In uncontrollable excitement Bennington seized
him with his sound hand.
"What is it? Tell me! What is her name, then?"
"O Lord! Don't squeeze so! I'll tell you! Letup!"
James dashed the back of his hand across his eyes.
"What is her name?" repeated Bennington fiercely.
"Wilhelmina Fay. We call her Bill for short."
"And Jim Fay?"
"Is her brother."
"And the Lawtons?"
"They board there."
Across Bennington's mind flashed vaguely a suspicion that turned him
faint with mortification.
"Who is this Jim Fay?" he asked.
"He's Jim Fay--James Leicester Fay, of Boston."
"Not----"
"Yes, exactly. The Boston Fays."
Bert swung himself into the saddle. "Better not say anything to Bill
about the young 'un's shoulder," called after him the ever-thoughtful
James.
CHAPTER XX
MASKS OFF
Now that it was all explained, it seemed to Bennington de Laney to be
ridiculously simple. He wondered how he could have been so blind. For
the moment, however, all other emotions were swallowed up in intense
mortification over the density he had displayed, and the ridiculous
light in which he must have appeared to all the actors in the comedy.
His companion perceived this, and kindly hastened to relieve it.
"You're wondering how it all happened," said he, "but you don't want to
ask about it. I'm going to tell you the story of your life. You see,
Bert and I knew the Fays very well in Boston, and we knew also that
they were out here in the Hills. That's what tickled us so when you
said you were coming out to this very place. You know yourself, Ben,
that you were pretty green when you were in New York--you must know it,
because you have got over it so nicely since--and it struck us, after
you talked so much about the 'Wild West,' that it would be a shame if
you didn't get some of it. So we wrote Jim that you were coming, and to
see to it that you had a time."
Jim chuckled a little. "From his letters, I guess you had it. He wrote
about that horse he sprung on you, and the time they lynched you, and
all the rest of it, and we thought we had done pretty well, especially
since Jim wrote he thought you weren't half bad, and had come through
in good shape. He wrote, too, that you had run against Bill, and that
Bill was fooling you up in some way--way unspecified. He seemed to be a
little afraid that Bill was trifling with your young affections--how is
it Ben, anyway?--but he said that Bill was very haughty on the subject,
and as he'd never been able to do anything with her before, he didn't
believe he'd have much success if he should try now. I suggested that
Bill might get in a little deep herself," went on James, watching his
listener's face keenly, "but Bert seemed inclined to the opinion that
any one as experienced as Bill was perfectly able to take care of
herself anywhere. She's a mighty fine girl, Ben, old man," suddenly
concluded this startling youth, holding out his hand, "and I wish you
every success in the world in getting her!"
"Thank you, Jeems," replied Bennington simply, without attempting to
deny the state of affairs. "I'm sure I'm glad of your good wishes, but
I'm afraid I haven't any show now." He sighed deeply.
"I'll give an opinion on that after I see Bill again," observed the
artist sagely.
"It always struck me as being queer that two of the most refined people
about here should happen to be living in the same house," commented
Bennington, only just aware that it had so struck him.
"Did it, indeed?" said Leslie drolly. "You're just bursting with
sagacity now, aren't you? And your Sherlock-Holmes intellect is
seething with conjecture. The lover's soul is far above the sordid
earthly considerations which interest us ordinary mortals, but I'll bet
a hat you are wondering how it comes that a Boston girl is out here
without any more restraint on her actions than a careless brother who
doesn't bother himself, and why she's out here at all, and a few things
like that. 'Fess up."
"Well," acknowledged Bennington a trifle reluctantly, "of course it is
a little out of the ordinary, but then it's all right, somehow, I'll
swear."
"All right! Of course it's all right! They haven't any father or
mother, you know, and they are independent of action, as you've no
doubt noticed. Bill kept house for Jim for some time--and they used to
keep a great house, I tell you," said James, smacking his lips in
recollection. "Bert and I used to visit there a good deal. That's why
they call me Jeems--to distinguish me from Jim. Then Jim got tired of
doing nothing--they possess everlasting rocks--you know their lamented
dad was a sort of amateur Croesus--and he decided to monkey with mines.
Bert and I were here one summer, so Bill and Jim just pulled up stakes
and came along too. They have been here ever since. They're both true
sports and like the life, and all that; and, besides, Jim has kept busy
monkeying with mining speculation. They're the salt of the earth, that
pair, if they _do_ worry poor old Boston to death with their ways of
doing things. That's one reason I like 'em so much. Society has fits
over their doings, but it can't get along without them."
"The Fays are a pretty good family, aren't they?" inquired Bennington.
He was irresistibly impelled to ask this question.
"Best going. Mayflower, William the Conqueror, and all that rot. You
must know of the Boston Fays."
"I do. That is, I've heard of them; but I didn't know whether they were
the same."
Jeems perceived that the topic interested the young fellow, so he
descanted at length concerning the Fays, their belongings, and their
doings. Time passed rapidly. Bennington was surprised to see Jim coming
down to them through the afterglow of sunset announcing vociferously
that the meal was at last prepared.
"I've fed the old lady," he announced, "and unlocked her. She doesn't
know what's up anyway. She just sits there like a graven image, scared
to death. She doesn't know a relocation from a telegraph pole. I told
her to get a move on her and fix us up some bunks, and I guess she's
at it now."
They consulted as to the best means of guarding the prisoners. It was
finally agreed that Leslie should stand sentinel until the others had
finished supper.
"I want to watch the effect of this light on the hills," he announced
positively, "and I'm not hungry, and Jim ought to cool off before
coming out into the air, and Ben's shoulder ought to be taken care of.
Get along with ye!"
Bennington accompanied Jim to the meal very cheerfully. The facts as to
the latter's persecutions remained the same, but in some way they did
not hold the same proportions as heretofore. The mere item that Jim Fay
was Mary's brother, instead of her lover, made all the difference in
the world. He chattered in a lively fashion concerning the method of
work to be adopted. Suddenly he pulled himself up short.
"I think I must beg your pardon," he said. "I heard about it all from
Jim Leslie. I have been very green, and you were quite right. If you
still want to do so, let's go into this together as friends."
"No pardon coming to me," responded Fay heartily. "I've been a little
tough on you occasionally, that I'll admit, and if I've done too much,
I'm sure I beg _your_ pardon. I saw you had the right stuff in you that
day when you stuck to the horse until you rode him, and I've always
liked you first-rate since then. And I wouldn't worry about this last
matter. You were green to the country, and were put down here without
definite instructions. You trusted Davidson, of course, and got fooled
in it; but then you just followed Bishop's lead in that. He'd been
trusting Davidson before you got here, and if he hadn't trusted him
right along, you can bet you'd have had your directions from A to Z. He
was as much to blame as you were, and you'll find that he knows it."
"I'm afraid you can't make me feel any better about that," objected
Bennington, shaking his head despondently.
"Well, you'll feel better after a time, and anyway there's no actual
harm done."
At this moment Bert Leslie entered.
"Bill's tickled to death," he announced. "She says she's coming up
first thing in the morning. She wanted to come right off and cook
supper, but I wouldn't let her. She couldn't very well stay here all
night, and it's pretty late now. What you got here? Pork? Coffee?
Murphies?"
He sat down and began to eat hungrily. Jim arose to relieve the
sentinel at the mouth of the shaft, at the same time advising de Laney
to go to bed as soon as possible.
"You're tired," he said, "and need rest. Wet that compress well with
Pond's Extract, and we'll dress it again in the morning."
In the kitchen he found the strange sombre woman sitting bolt upright
in silence, her arms folded rigidly across her flat bosom. She looked
straight in front of her, and rocked slowly to and fro on her chair.
"You mustn't worry, Mrs. Arthur," consoled Fay kindly, pausing for a
moment. "There isn't going to be any trouble. It's just a little matter
of mining law. We'll have to keep your husband locked up for a few
days, but he won't be harmed."
The woman made no reply. Fay looked at her sharply again, and passed
out.
"Jeems," he directed that individual at the mouth of the shaft, "go get
your grub. Send the kid to bed right off, and then you and Bert come
down here and we'll fix up these prairie dogs of ours down the hole."
Jeems and his brother therefore helped the wounded hero to bed, and
left him to a much-needed slumber; after which they returned to the
spot of light in the darkness which marked the glow of Fay's pipe. That
capable individual issued directions. First of all they lowered, by
means of a light cord, food and water to their prisoners. The latter
maintained a sullen silence, and it was only by the lightening of the
burden at the end of the line that those above knew their provisions
had been appropriated. Then followed blankets. The Leslies were
strongly in favour of as uncomfortable a confinement as possible, and
so disapproved of blankets, but Fay insisted. After that the brothers
manned the windlass and let Jim down in a bowline about twenty feet,
while he detached and removed two lengths of the shaft ladder. This
left no means of ascent, as the walls of the shaft were smoothly
timbered; but, to make matters sure, they covered the mouth with inch
thick boards on which they piled large chunks of ore.
"You don't suppose they'll smother?" suggested Bert.
"Not much! There's only three of them, and often men drilling will stay
down ten or twelve hours at a time without using up the air."
"Sweet dreams, gentlemen!" called the irrepressible Jeems in farewell.
"There's one other thing," said Jim, "and then we can crawl in."
He approached the cabin in which Arthur and his wife were accustomed to
sleep, and listened until he had satisfied himself that Mrs. Arthur was
inside. Then he softly locked the door, the key of which he had
appropriated immediately after supper, and propped shut the heavy
wooden shutter of the window.
"No dramatic escapes in ours, thank you!" he muttered. He drew back and
surveyed his work with satisfaction. "Come on, boys, let's turn in.
To-morrow we slave."
CHAPTER XXI
THE LAND OF VISIONS
Although he had retired so early, and in so exhausted a condition,
Bennington de Laney could not sleep. He had taken a slight fever, and
the wound in his shoulder was stiff and painful. For hours on end he
lay flat on his back, staring at the dim illuminations of the windows
and listening to the faint out-of-door noises or the sharper borings of
insects in the logs of the structure. His mind was not active. He lay
in a semi-torpor, whose most vivid consciousness was that of mental
discomfort and the interminability of time.
The events of the day rose up before him, but he seemed to loathe them
merely because they had been of so active a character, and now he could
not bear to have his brain teased even with their impalpable shadow.
Strangely enough, this altitude seemed to create a certain dead
polarity between him and them. They lay sullenly outside his brain,
repelled by this dead polarity, and he looked at them languidly,
against the dim illumination of the window, with a dull joy that they
could not come near him and enter the realm of his thoughts. All this
was the fever.
In a little time these events became endowed with more palpable bodies
which moved. The square of semilucent window faded into something
indescribable, and that into something indescribable, and that into
something else, still indescribable.
They moved swiftly, and things happened. He found himself suddenly in a
long gallery, half in the dusk, half in the lamplight, pacing slowly
back and forth, waiting for something, he knew not what. To him came a
bustling motherly old woman with a maid's cap on, who said, "Sure,
Master Ben, the moon is shining, and, let me tell ye, at the end of the
hall is a balcony of iron, and Miss Mary will be glad you know that
same." And at that he seemed to himself to be hunting for a coin with
which to tip her. He discovered it turned to lead between his fingers,
whereupon the old woman laughed shrilly and disappeared, and he found
himself alone on the prairie at midnight.
His mind seemed to be filled with great thoughts which would make him
famous. Over and over again he said to himself: "The rain pours and the
people down below chuckle as they move about each under his little
umbrella of self-conceit. They look up to the mountain, saying, 'The
fool! Why looks he so high? He is lost in the mists up there, and he
might be safe and dry with us.' But the mountain has over him the arch
of the universe, and sleeps calmly in the sun of truth. Little recks he
of the clouds below, and knows not at all the little self-satisfied
fools who pity him," and he thought this was the sum of all wisdom, and
that with it would come immortality.
Then a bell began to boom, a deep-toned bell, whose tolling was
inexpressibly solemn, and poured into his heart a sadness too deep for
sorrow. As though there dwelt an enchantment in the very sound itself,
the dark prairies shifted like a scene, and in their stead he saw, in a
cold gray twilight, a high doorway built of a cold gray stone,
rough-hewed and heavy. Through its arch passed then a file of
gray-cowled monks, their faces concealed. Each carried a torch, whose
flickering, wavering light cast weird cowled figures on the gray stone,
and in their midst was borne a bier, covered with white. And as the
deep bell boomed on through all the vision, like a subtle thrilling
presence, Bennington seemed to himself to stand, finger on lip, the
eternal custodian of the Secret of it all--the secret that each of
these cowled figures was a Man--a divine soul and a body, with ears,
and eyes, and a brain; that he had thoughts, and his life that is and
is to come was of these thoughts; that there beat hearts beneath that
gray, and that their voices must not be heeded; that in the morning
these wearied eyes awaited but the eve, and that the evening brought no
hope for a new day; that these silent, awesome beings lived within the
heavy stones alone with monotony, until the bell tolled, as now, and
they were carried through the arched doorway into the night; and, above
all, that to each there were sixty minutes in the hour, and twenty-four
hours in the day, and years and years of these days. This was the
Secret, and he was its custodian. None of the others knew of it; but
its awfulness made him sad and stern. He checked the days, he numbered
the hours, he counted the minutes rigorously lest one escape. One did
escape, and he turned back to catch it, and pursued it far away from
the stone doorway and the dull twilight, and even the sound of the
bell, off into a land where there were many hills and valleys, among
which the fugitive Minute hid elusively. And he pursued the Minute,
calling upon it to come to him, and the name by which he called it was
Mary. Then he saw that the square of the window had become yellow with
the sun, and that through it he could hear plainly the voices of the
Leslies talking in high tones.
His brain was very clear, more so than usual, and he not only received
many impressions, and ordered them with ease and despatch, but his very
senses seemed more than ordinarily acute. He could distinguish even by
day, when the night stillness had withdrawn its favouring conditions,
the borings of the sawdust insects in the logs of the cabin. Only he
was very tired. His hands seemed a long distance away, as though it
would require an extraordinary effort of the will to lift them. So he
lay quiet and listened.