The Claim Jumpers - Stewart Edward White
"I'd like to know what this means?" broke out the Easterner angrily.
The men did not reply. They stood motionless, as silent as the night.
In spite of his indignation, the young man was impressed. He twisted
his shoulders again. The men at either arm never tightened a muscle to
resist, and yet he was held beyond the possibility of escape.
"What's the matter? What're you trying to do? Take your hands off me!"
he cried.
Again the silence fell.
Then at the end of what seemed to the Easterner a full minute the
masked figure in front spoke.
"Thar is them that thinks as how it ain't noways needful thet ye
knows," it said in slow and solemn accents, "but by the mercy of th'
others we gives y' thet much satisfaction."
"You comes hyar from a great corp'ration thet in times gone by we
thinks is public spirited an' enterprisin', which is a mistake. You
pays th' debt of said corp'ration, so they sez, an' tharfore we
welcomes you to our bosom cordial. What happens? You insults us by
paying such low-down ornary cusses as Snowie. Th' camp is just. She
arises an' avenges said insult by stringin' of you up all right an'
proper. We gives you five minutes to get ready."
"What do you mean?"
"We hangs you in five minutes."
The slow, even voice ceased, and again the silence was broken only by
the occasional bursting crackle of a blister in the pine torches.
Bennington tried to realize the situation. It had all come about so
suddenly.
"I guess you've got the joke on me, boys," he ventured with a nervous
little laugh. And then his voice died away against the stony
immobility of the man opposite as laughter sinks to nothing against
the horror of a great darkness. Bennington began to feel impressed in
earnest. Across his mind crept doubts as to the outcome. He almost
screamed aloud as some one stole up behind and dropped over his throat
the soft cold coil of a lariat. Then, at a signal from the chief, the
two men haled him away.
They stopped beneath a gnarled oak halfway down the slope to the gulch
bottom, from which protruded, like a long witch arm, a single withered
branch. Over this the unseen threw the end of the lariat. Bennington
faced the expressionless gaze of twenty masks, on which the torchlight
threw Strong black shadows. Directly in front of him the leader posted
himself, watch in hand.
"Any last requests?" he inquired in his measured tones.
Bennington felt the need of thinking quickly, but, being unused to
emergencies, he could not.
"Anywhar y' want yore stuff sent?" the other pursued relentlessly.
Bennington swallowed, and found his voice at last.
"Now be reasonable," he pleaded. "It isn't going to do you any good to
hang me. I didn't mean to make any distinctions. I just paid the oldest
debts, that's all. You'll all get paid. There'll be some more money
after a while, and then I can pay some more of you. If you kill me, you
won't get any at all."
"Won't get any any way," some one muttered audibly from the crowd.
The man with the watch never stirred.
"Two minutes more," he said simply.
One of the men, who had been holding the young man's arms, had fallen
back into the crowd when the lariat was thrown over the oak limb.
During the short colloquy just detailed, the attention of the other had
become somewhat distracted. Bennington wrenched himself free, and
struck this man full in the face.
He had never in his well-ordered life hit in anger, but behind this
blow was desperation, and the weight of a young and active body. The
man went down. Bennington seized the lariat with both hands and tried
to wrench it over his head.
The individual who had done all the talking leaped forward toward him,
and dodging a hastily aimed blow, seized him about the waist and threw
him neatly to the ground. Bennington struggled furiously and silently.
The other had great difficulty in holding him down.
"Come here, some of you fellows," he cried, panting and laughing a
little. "Tie his hands, for the love of Heaven."
In another moment the Easterner, his arms securely pinioned, stood as
before. He was breathing hard and the short struggle had heated his
blood through and through. Bunker Hill had waked up. He set his teeth,
resolving that they should not get another word out of him.
The timekeeper raised one hand warningly. Over his shoulder Bennington
dimly saw a tall muscular figure, tense with the expectation of effort,
lean forward to the slack of the lariat. He stared back to the front.
The leader raised his pistol to give the signal. Bennington shut his
eyes. Then ensued a pause and a murmuring of low voices. Bennington
looked, and, to his surprise, perceived Lawton's girl in earnest
expostulation with the leader of the band. As he listened their voices
rose, so he caught snatches of their talk.
"Confound it all!" objected the man in exasperated tones, "you don't
play fair. That wasn't the agreement at all."
"Agreement or no agreement, this thing's gone far enough," she rejoined
sharply. "I've watched the whole performance, and I've been expecting
for the last ten minutes you'd have sense enough to quit."
The voices died to a murmuring. Once the girl stamped her foot, and
once the man spread his hands out in deprecation. The maskers grouped
about in silent enjoyment of the scene. At last the discussion
terminated.
"It's all up, boys," cried the man savagely, tearing off his mask. To
Bennington's vast surprise, the features of Jim Fay were discovered. He
approached and began sullenly to undo the young man's pinioned arms.
The others rolled up their masks and put them in their pockets. They
laughed to each other consumedly. The tall man approached, rubbing his
jaw.
"You hits hard, sonny," said he, "and you don't go down in yore
boots[A] a little bit."
The group began to break up and move down the gulch, most of the men
shouting out a good-natured word or so of farewell. Bennington,
recovering from his daze at the rapid passage of these events, stepped
forward to where Fay and the girl had resumed their discussion. He saw
that the young miner had recovered his habitual tone of raillery, and
that the girl was now looking up at him with eyes full of deprecation.
"Miss Lawton," said Bennington with formality, "I hope you will allow
me, after your great kindness, to see that you get down the gulch
safely."
Fay cut in before the girl could reply.
"Don't bother about that, de Laney," said he, in a most cavalier
fashion. "I'll see to it."
"I did not address you, sir!" returned Bennington coldly. The
Westerner's eyes twinkled with amusement. The girl interrupted.
"Thank you very much, Mr. de Laney, but Mr. Fay is right--I wouldn't
trouble you." Her eyes commanded Fay, and he moved a little apart.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded hurriedly, in an undertone, "but it's
better that way to-night. And I think you acted grandly."
"You are the one who acted grandly," he replied, a little mollified.
"How can I ever thank you? You came just in time."
She laughed.
"You're not angry, are you?" she coaxed.
"No, of course not; what right have I to be?"
"I don't like that--quite--but I suppose it will do. You'll be there
to-morrow?"
"You know I will."
"Then good-night." She gave his folded arm a hasty pat and ran on down
the hill after Fay, who had gone on. Bennington saw her seize his
shoulders, as she overtook him, and give them a severe shake.
The light of the torches down the gulch wavered and disappeared.
Bennington returned to his room. On the table lay his manuscript, and
the ink was hardly dried on the last word of it. Outside a poor-will
began to utter its weird call. The candle before him sputtered, and
burned again with a clear flame.
[Footnote A: Western--to become frightened.]
CHAPTER IX
THE HEAVENS OPENED
Bennington awoke early the next morning, a pleased glow of anticipation
warming his heart, and almost before his eyes were opened he had raised
himself to leap out of the bunk. Then with a disappointed sigh he sank
back. On the roof fell the heavy patter of raindrops.
After a time he arose and pulled aside the curtains of a window. The
nearer world was dripping; the farther world was hidden or obscured by
long veils of rain, driven in ragged clouds before a west wind.
Yesterday the leaves had waved lightly, the undergrowth of shrubs had
uplifted in feathery airiness of texture, the ground beneath had been
crisp and aromatic with pine needles. Now everything bore a drooping,
sodden aspect which spoke rather of decay than of the life of spring.
Even the chickens had wisely remained indoors, with the exception of a
single bedraggled old rooster, whose melancholy appearance added
another shade of gloom to the dismal outlook. The wind twisted his long
tail feathers from side to side so energetically that, even as
Bennington looked, the poor fowl, perforce, had to scud, careened from
one side to the other, like a heavily-laden craft, into the shelter of
his coop. The wind, left to its own devices, skittered across
cold-looking little pools of water, and tried in vain to induce the
soaked leaves of the autumn before to essay an aerial flight.
The rain hit the roof now in heavy gusts as though some one had dashed
it from a pail. The wind whistled through a loosened shingle and
rattled around an ill-made joint. Within the house itself some slight
sounds of preparation for breakfast sounded the clearer against the
turmoil outside. And then Bennington became conscious that for some
time he had _felt_ another sound underneath all the rest. It was grand
and organlike in tone, resembling the roar of surf on a sand beach as
much as anything else. He looked out again, and saw that it was the
wind in the trees. The same conditions that had before touched the harp
murmur of a stiller day now struck out a rush and roar almost
awe-inspiring in its volume. Bennington impulsively threw open the
window and leaned out.
The great hill back of the camp was so steep that the pines growing on
its slope offered to the breeze an almost perpendicular screen of
branches. Instead of one, or at most a dozen trees, the wind here
passed through a thousand at once. As a consequence, the stir of air
that in a level woodland would arouse but a faint whisper, here would
pass with a rustling murmur; a murmur would be magnified into a noise
as of the mellow falling of waters; and now that the storm had
awakened, the hill caught up its cry with a howl so awful and sustained
that, as the open window let in the full volume of its blast,
Bennington involuntarily drew back. He closed the sash and turned to
dress.
After the first disappointment, strange to say, Bennington became quite
resigned. He had felt, a little illogically, that this giving of a
whole day to the picnic was not quite the thing. His Puritan conscience
impressed him with the sacredness of work. He settled down to the fact
of the rainstorm with a pleasant recognition of its inevitability, and
a resolve to improve his time.
To that end, after breakfast, he drew on a pair of fleece-lined
slippers, donned a sweater, occupied two chairs in the well-known
fashion, and attacked with energy the pages of Le Conte's _Geology_.
This book, as you very well know, discourses at first with great
interest concerning erosions. Among other things it convinces you that
a current of water, being doubled in swiftness, can transport a mass
sixty-four times as heavy as when it ran half as fast. This astounding
proposition is abstrusely proved. As Bennington had resolved not to
make his reading mere recreation, he drew diagrams conscientiously
until he understood it. Then he passed on to an earnest consideration
of why the revolution of the globe and the resistance of continents
cause oceanic currents of a particular direction and velocity. Besides
this, there was much easier reading concerning alluvial deposits. So
interested did he grow that Old Mizzou, coming in, muddy-hoofed and
glistening from a round of the stock, found him quite unapproachable on
the subject of cribbage. The patriarch then stumped over to Arthur's
cabin.
After dinner, Bennington picked up the book again, but found that his
brain had reached the limit of spontaneous mental effort. He looked for
Old Mizzou and the cribbage game. The miner had gone to visit Arthur
again. Bennington wandered about disconsolately.
For a time he drummed idly on the window pane. Then he took out his
revolver and tried to practise through the open doorway. The smoke from
the discharges hung heavy in the damp air, filling the room in a most
disagreeable fashion. Bennington's trips to see the effect of his shots
proved to him the fiendish propensity of everything he touched, were it
never so lightly, to sprinkle him with cold water. Above all, his skill
with the weapon was not great enough as yet to make it much fun. He
abandoned pistol shooting and yawned extensively, wishing it were time
to go to bed.
In the evening he played cribbage with Old Mizzou. After a time Arthur
and his wife came in and they had a dreary game of "cinch," the man
speaking but little, the woman not at all. Old Mizzou smoked
incessantly on a corncob pipe charged with a peculiarly pungent variety
of tobacco, which filled the air with a blue vapour, and penetrated
unpleasantly into Bennington's mucous membranes.
The next morning it was still raining.
Bennington became very impatient indeed, but he tackled Le Conte
industriously, and did well enough until he tried to get it into his
head why various things happen to glaciers. Then viscosity, the lines
of swiftest motion, relegation, and directions of pressure came forth
from the printed pages and mocked him. He arose in his might and went
forth into the open air.
Before going out he had put on his canvas shooting coat and a pair of
hobnailed leather hunting boots, laced for a little distance at the
front and sides. He visited the horses, standing disconsolate under an
open shed in the corral; he slopped, with constantly accruing masses of
sticky earth at his feet, to the chicken coop, into which he cast an
eye; he even took the kitchen pails and tramped down to the spring and
back. In the gulch he did not see or hear a living thing. A newly-born
and dirty little stream was trickling destructively through all manner
of shivering grasses and flowers. The water from Bennington's sleeves
ran down over the harsh canvas cuffs and turned his hands purple with
the cold. He returned to the cabin and changed his clothes.
The short walk had refreshed him, but it had spurred his impatience.
Outside, the world seemed to have changed. His experience with the
Hills, up to now, had always been in one phase of their beauty--that of
clear, bright sunshine and soft skies. Now it was as a different
country. He could not get rid of the feeling, foolish as it was, that
it was in reality different; and that the whole episode of the girl and
the rock was as a vision which had passed. It grew indistinct in the
presence of this iron reality of cold and wet. He could not assure
himself he had not imagined it all. Thus, belated, he came to thinking
of her again, and having now nothing else to do, he fell into daydreams
that had no other effect than to reveal to him the impatience which had
been, from the first, the real cause of his restlessness under the
temporary confinement. Now the impatience grew in intensity. He
resolved that if the morrow did not end the storm, he would tramp down
the gulch to make a call. All this time _Aliris_ lay quite untouched.
The next day dawned darker than ever. After breakfast Old Mizzou, as
usual, went out to feed the horses, and Bennington, through sheer
idleness, accompanied him. They distributed the oats and hay, and then
stood, sheltered from the direct rain, conversing idly.
Suddenly the wind died and the rain ceased. In the place of the gloom
succeeded a strange sulphur-yellow glare which lay on the spirit with
almost physical oppression. Old Mizzou shouted something, and scrambled
excitedly to the house. Bennington looked about him bewildered.
Over back of the hill, dimly discernible through the trees, loomed the
black irregular shape of a cloud, in dismal contrast to the yellow
glare which now filled all the sky. The horses, frightened, crowded up
close to Bennington, trying to push their noses over his shoulder. A
number of jays and finches rushed down through the woods and darted
rapidly, each with its peculiar flight, toward a clump of trees and
bushes standing on a ridge across the valley.
From the cabin Old Mizzou was shouting to him. He turned to follow the
old man. Back of him something vast and awful roared out, and then all
at once he felt himself struggling with a rush of waters. He was jammed
violently against the posts of the corral. There he worked to his feet.
The whole side of the hill was one vast spread of shallow tossing
water, as though a lake had been let fall on the summit of the ridge.
The smaller bushes were uprooted and swept along, but the trees and
saplings held their own.
In a moment the stones and ridgelets began to show. It was over. Not a
drop of rain had fallen.
Bennington climbed the corral fence and walked slowly to the house. The
blacksmith shop was filled to the window, and Arthur's cabin was not
much better. He entered the kitchen. The floor there was some two
inches submerged, but the water was slowly escaping through the
down-hill door by which Bennington had come in. Across the dining-room
door Mrs. Arthur had laid a folded rug. In front of the barrier stood
the lady herself, vigorously sweeping back the threatening water from
her only glorious apartment.
Bennington took the broom from her and swept until the cessation of the
flood made it no longer necessary. Mrs. Arthur commenced to mop the
floor. The young man stepped outside. There he was joined a moment
later by the other two.
They offered no explanation of their whereabouts during the trouble,
but Bennington surmised shrewdly that they had hunted a dry place.
"Glory!" cried Old Mizzou. "Lucky she misses us!"
"What was it? Where'd it come from?" inquired Bennington, shaking the
surface drops from his shoulders. He was wet through.
"Cloud-burst," replied the miner. "She hit up th' ridge a ways. If
she'd ever burst yere, sonny, ye'd never know what drownded ye. Look at
that gulch!"
The water had now drained from the hill entirely. It could be seen that
most of the surface earth had been washed away, leaving the skeleton of
the mountain bare. Some of the more slightly rooted trees had fallen,
or clung precariously to the earth with bony fingers. But the gulch
itself was terrible. The mountain laurel, the elders, the sarvis
bushes, the wild roses which, a few days before, had been fragrant and
beautiful with blossom and leaf and musical with birds, had
disappeared. In their stead rolled an angry brown flood whirling in
almost unbroken surface from bank to bank. Several oaks, submerged to
their branches, raised their arms helplessly. As Bennington looked,
one of these bent slowly and sank from sight. A moment later it shot
with great suddenness half its length into the air, was seized by the
eager waters, and whisked away as lightly as though it had been a tree
of straw. Dark objects began to come down with the stream. They seemed
to be trying to preserve a semblance of dignity in their stately
bobbing up and down, but apparently found the attempt difficult. The
roar was almost deafening, but even above it a strangely deliberate
grinding noise was audible. Old Mizzou said it was the grating of
boulders as they were rolled along the bed of the stream. The yellow
glow had disappeared from the air, and the gloom of rain had taken its
place.
A fine mist began to fall. Bennington for the first time realized he
was wet and shivering, and so he turned inside to change his clothes.
"It'll all be over in a few hours," remarked Arthur. "I reckon them
Spanish Gulch people'll wish they lived up-stream."
Bennington paused at the doorway.
"That's so," he commented. "How about Spanish Gulch? Will it all be
drowned out?"
"No, I reckon not," replied Arthur. "They'll get wet down a lot, and
have wet blankets to sleep in to-night, that's all. You see the gulch
spraddles out down there, an' then too all this timber'll jam down this
gulch a-ways. That'll back up th' water some, and so she won't come all
of a rush."
"I see," said Bennington.
The afternoon was well enough occupied in repairing to some extent the
ravages of the brief storm. A length of the corral had succumbed to the
flood, many valuable tools in the blacksmith shop were in danger of
rust from the dampness, and Arthur and his wife had been completely
washed out. All three men worked hard setting things to rights. The
twilight caught them before their work was done.
Bennington found himself too weary to attempt an unknown,
_debris_-covered road by dark. He played cribbage with Old Mizzou and
won.
About half past nine he pushed back his chair and went outside. The
stars had come out by the thousand, and a solitary cricket, which had
in some way escaped the deluge, was chirping in the middle distance.
With a sudden uplift of the heart he realized that he would see "her"
on the morrow. He learned that no matter how philosophically we may
have borne a separation, the prospect of its near end shows us how
strong the repression has been; the lifting of the bonds makes evident
how much they have galled.
CHAPTER X
THE WORLD MADE YOUNG
The morning fulfilled the promise of the night before. Bennington de
Laney awoke to a sun-bright world, fresh with the early breezes. A
multitude of birds outside the window bubbled and warbled and carolled
away with all their little mights, either in joy at the return of
peace, or in sorrow at the loss of their new-built houses. Sorrow and
joy sound much alike as nature tells them. The farther ridges and the
prairies were once more in view, but now, oh, wonder! the great plain
had cast aside its robes of monk brown, and had stepped forth in jolly
green-o'Lincoln. The air was full of tingling life. Altogether a
morning to cry one to leap eagerly from bed, to rush to the window, to
drink in deep draughts of electric balmy ozone, and to thank heaven for
the grace of mere existence.
That at least is what Bennington did. And he did more. He despatched a
hasty breakfast, and went forth and saddled his steed, and rode away
down the gulch, with never a thought of sample tests, and never a care
whether the day's work were done or not. For this was springtime, and
the air was snapping with it. Near the chickens' shelter the burnished
old gobbler spread his tail and dragged his wings and puffed his
feathers and swelled himself red in the face, to the great admiration
of a demure gray-brown little turkey hen. Overhead wheeled two small
hawks screaming. They clashed, and light feathers came floating down
from the encounter; yet presently they flew away together to a hole in
a dead tree. Three song sparrows dashed almost to his very feet, so
busily fighting that they hardly escaped the pony's hoofs. Everywhere
love songs trilled from the underbrush; and Bennington de Laney, as
young, as full of life, as unmated as they, rode slowly along thinking
of his lady love, and----
"Hullo! Where are you going?" cried she.
He looked up with eager joy, to find that they had met in the middle
of what used to be the road. The gulch had been swept bare by the
flood, not only of every representative of the vegetable world, but
also of the very earth in which it had grown. From the remains of the
roadbed projected sharp flints and rocks, among which the broncos
picked their way.
"Good-morning, Mary," he cried. "I was just coming to see you. Wasn't
it a great rain?"
"And isn't the gulch awful? Down near our way the timber began to jam,
and it is all choked up; but up here it is desolate."
He turned his horse about, and they paced slowly along together,
telling each other their respective experiences in the storm. It seemed
that the Lawtons had known nothing of the cloud-burst itself, except
from its effects in filling up the ravine. Rumours of the drowning of a
miner were about.
It soon became evident that the brightness of the morning was reflected
from the girl's mood. She fairly sparkled with gaiety and high spirits.
The two got along famously.
"Where are you going?" asked Bennington at last.
"On the picnic, of course," she rejoined promptly. "Weren't you
invited? I thought you were."
"I thought it would be too wet," he averred in explanation.
"Not a bit! The rain dries quickly in the hills, and the cloud-burst
only came into this gulch. I have here," she went on, twisting around
in her saddle to inspect a large bundle and a pair of well-stuffed
saddle bags, "I have here a coffee pot, a frying pan, a little kettle,
two tin cups, and various sorts of grub. I am fixed for a scout sure.
Now when we get near your camp you must run up and get an axe and some
matches."