Old Misery

“It’s just to match the card, Señor Americano.

OLD MISERY

By HUGH PENDEXTER

Author of
“Pay Gravel,” etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers ⁠ New York

Published by arrangement with The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Printed in U. S. A.

Printed in the United States of America

To
Delbert M. Stewart, M.D.,
Whose Friendship Has Been
An Enduring Satisfaction,
This Book is Affectionately
Dedicated

FOREWORD

The foundations of the thirty-first state in the Union consisted of placer gold and were unwittingly laid. The precious metal was a magnet that drew from all portions of the globe. No corner was so remote as not to heed the imperious summons once the news leaped oceans and climbed mountains. Men in the prime of life responded, as the adventure was only for the physically fit and resolute. Never was there a land of promise where nature more generously laid down waterways in pleasant valleys for the convenience of the newcomers, nor where the climate was more beneficially arranged. And the bold and eager swarmed to the lonely shore and turned the vast treasure house topsy-turvy. What had been fair vales and majestic forests were shoveled and sluiced into a chaos of raw earth and mud-choked streams.
Among the thousands who flocked to California were many desperate characters from all climes. Penal colonies in Australia were contributed. England sent her worst from home. France was rid of many villains. A strange mixture of little-understood people, meek and evil, swarmed in from the Orient. South American men were among the first to arrive. No section of the Union that failed to send its good and bad. No laws awaited the in sweeping hordes. In desperation the decent element patched up a system of justice called Vigilance Commit tees whenever conditions in spots became intolerable. San Francisco hanged and terrified and scattered the rogues up and down the great valleys to infect the smaller and more remote communities. The outlying centers imitated the bay, and there were rare hangings.
But crime and gold are ever pals under certain conditions, or so long as a new mining country is without homes, and is not interested in homes. The law-abiding are actuated by the selfish desire to secure plenty of gold and return whence they came. Doctors abandoned their practices, lawyers deserted the court-room, ministers of the gospel ceased from preaching, tradesmen and work men of all classes forgot their helpful vocations in the mad scramble for gold. When the entire mass of migratory males, unleavened at first by the presence of good women, sought only to “strike it rich.” it naturally resulted that the less righteous hunted gold by direct and reprehensible methods.
A woman with an immigrant train, slowly making her way across the plains and throughout the long, dangerous journey caring for two hives of bees, was more prophetic of a majestic state than a gulch full of gold-mad miners. The man who opened a school in San Francisco was a far more valuable citizen than a judge who left the bench to swing a pick. It was the woman with the beehives and the school master, who planted the idea of “Home” in the rich valleys and along the coast, and made possible a stately structure on foundations of placer gold.

OLD MISERY

CHAPTER I

EXPENSIVE ENTERTAINMENT

AN OLD man and a young man jostled against each other in front of the Rassette House at Bush and Sansome Streets one afternoon in late April. The first was in San Francisco contrary to his inclination and was striving to kill his sense of loneliness with much whisky. From early manhood he had wandered far and wide west of the Missouri River and never felt so much at ease as when alone in a hostile Indian country, or when exploring little-known mountains. The other already was wishing himself back in the placid, orderly life of quiet Vermont. He had had his high hopes but the long voyage through the Straits of Magellan, marked by much physical suffering, had profoundly depressed him. When he bumped into the white-whiskered, white-haired mountain man he was clinging to but one desire; to crawl into a stationary bed and remain there. He was scarcely conscious of the collision until the old man jolted him to attention by belligerently warning:

“Keep the trail, younker. This place is more mixed up than a Crow village, but there's foot-room for all if you don't play the hog.”

Joseph Gilbert, just landed, glanced at the man meekly, too miserable to resent any fault-finding. Followed by characterizations of “greenhorn” and the like he wearily carried his large carpet-bag into the hotel. He had been one of the first ashore, inwardly vowing he would return overland regardless of all perils. At the wharf he had found a splendid omnibus—he first supposed it to be the private equipage of a millionaire—and had requested the driver to set him down at any good hotel. He would not have noticed the mountain man at all if it had not been for his curious garb. Suits of buckskin were not seen in Vermont. In Frisco on this prime April day in 'fifty-three a man could have worn a bathrobe through the business section and attracted no attention. Gilbert unconsciously tucked away in memory a recollection of the queer old man cased in clothes of skin. The house was heavily patronized but he secured a room, turned his money over to the clerk and went to bed.

There followed days of recuperation and soul-building; rather pleasant after he had been initiated, into the luxury of taking;some of his meals in bed, in Home folks would have been much scandalized could they have known of such unheard-of ways of living. Fortunately a continent stretched between the Rassette House and the Vermont village. Finally his voracious appetite told him he was well, and conscience rebuked him for not being about his business.

On the second morning of May he awoke to discover a new Joseph Gilbert, one who loudly scoffed at the breakfast-in-bed habit. This new fellow bounded to the middle of the floor and made haste to get outside and discover the world. He was secretly dismayed on descending to the office to be presented with a bill at the rate of ten dollars a day, plus certain extras. Back home a dollar a day at the Commercial House would have entitled him to the best, although only a hopeless invalid would have been permitted to eat in bed.

However, Joseph had money to match his good clothes, and he paid without any visible qualms. He realized he must reconstruct his lines of thought to fit in with the new environment. One must not heed the cost when every man was a potential millionaire. The Rassette House had taken no money from him, he told himself; some gold mine in the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada was paying the bills. And in rather an exuberant frame of mind he left his bag and went forth to transact certain business. His plans had been made ahead with New England thoroughness and he could leave almost immediately for Coloma and plunge into the thrilling work of picking up chunks of gold.

As he strolled up Bush Street he changed his original ideas about the city. He was glad he had not followed his first plan of wearing his old clothes. The day of ragged hats and stogy boots and rough shirts was rapidly passing, especially in San Francisco. He saw all nationalities and all sorts of dress, but he missed the rough-garbed, frowsy type so often pictured in the Illustrated News.

There were immaculately clad Englishmen; easterners and Southerners in the latest Parisian modes; men from South America and Mexico, barbaric with silver buttons and gold chains. French workmen were neat in their blouses; and there had been a certain smartness in the old man's heavily-fringed collar, or cape, and fringed trousers. There were many men, all erroneously dubbed “Yanks,” in black broadcloth coats with long skirts, black trousers, black satin waistcoats, and stove-pipe hats. After walking a block the young pilgrim decided the Anglo-Saxon Gallic and Celtic men were very proud of their beards; and he forthwith decided to encourage his own frail whiskers to grow. Oriental types, and men whose natal land he could not guess, gave much color and dash to the streaming street scenes.

His first stop was at the Wells, Fargo and Company's office. He assumed the entire morning would be required in transacting his pieces of business. After briefly examining his credentials a clerk bruskly demanded how he “would have it.” And he began stacking twenty dollar gold pieces in piles of ten. On finishing the seventh pile he noticed Gilbert's embarrassment and asked:

“Bothered about carrying it? Haven't you a belt? Nuisance to pack it around with you. Better let us send it on to await your order at Coloma.”

Gilbert was nettled at the clerk's quickness in arriving at conclusions. Then again, how was he to know the fourteen hundred dollars would be waiting for him at Coloma? Back home the president of the bank would have used a day in deciding on the best mode of procedure.

“I'll take it with me,” he told the clerk. “I haven't a belt. Perhaps I can leave it here until I buy one.”

“Wait a minute,” barked the clerk. He darted to the rear of the room and quickly returned with a worn but serviceable money-belt.

“Step around the corner and slip it on.”

Gilbert did as told. Then, sensitively alive to the fact that high prices ruled in San Francisco, he inquired:

“How much do you tax me for that?”

“Nothing. Fellow threw it aside when he came in from the mines. We're glad to get rid of it. But we can give you an order and save you packing that stuff to Coloma. Joaquin's mighty busy these days, from Shasta to Sonoma.”

Gilbert knew nothing about the individual mentioned, and he thought the remark irrelevant; and he rather resented the imputation he could not look out for himself.

“It ain't heavy. I'll carry it. Thank you.”

He was used to hard work, and the weight of the gold would have been nothing had it been on his back; but, never having worn a heavy belt before, he quickly found it to be an inconvenience. He felt as if he had increased his waist measure by several feet and that every one was staring at him. As this diffidence wore off he proceeded to secure an outfit. Remembering the clerk's intimation that danger might attend a man carrying gold, his first purchase was an Allen revolver, pepper-box pattern. This weapon, earnestly assured the merchant, was far better than a Colt navy revolver, thirty-eight caliber and weighing two pounds and ten ounces. He prided himself he shopped shrewdly, making his selections sparingly and with much care although the man displayed a multitude of devices and solemnly insisted each was vitally necessary in gold-mining. He bought two blankets, rolled his purchases in them, carried the bundle to the hotel, and deposited it with his carpet-bag.

His next move was to find a room in a boarding-house; for he planned to take the boat to Sacramento in the morning and did not intend to pay ten dollars for another twenty-four hours at the Rassette House. He found a place near the wharves where he could enjoy a poor room and bed for two dollars without being murdered, and shifted his luggage.

Left free to enjoy the day, he discovered his principal interest was in food. He was especially pleased with Winn's Branch at Montgomery and Washington Streets as no liquors were served and the place was as clean as a Puritan kitchen. His appetite was ravenous and threatened to put him in the ten-dollar-a-day class—aside from his room rent. It was ingrained prudence and New England thrift, however, rather than any fear of being penniless among strangers, that troubled him. According to his upbringing it was “wicked” to spend so much money on one's self. Yet he could not resist the appeal of a tempting window-display, the lure of spotless table-cloths and the appetizing aromas. And, although feeling guilty, his mind purred sleekly as he indulged in broiled quail and coffee at Carleton's on Commercial Street.

This was followed two hours later by a lunch beyond his powers of analysis in a French cabaret. When he was not eating he was fighting the temptation of a mutton-chop in an English lunch-house, a boiled dinner in an American dining-room, or some hot, thirst-provoking dish in a Mexican fonda. And he succumbed to roast suckling-pig in a German wirthschaft. The Chinese chow-chows were too smelly, and the Italian osterie too mysterious.

Food being his obsession, the markets naturally interested and amazed him. He had never imagined any mart could offer for sale such a variety of game, ranging from squirrels to bears, from curlew to geese, all garnished with a bewildering assortment of sea foods. He gloated over the display. To escape temptation he walked up Russian Hill and saw the spot where José Forni was hanged, the first legal execution in San Francisco. He wandered out Pacific Street toward Lone Mountain, where it was planned to locate a new cemetery, but the exercise made him hungry and he soon turned back. Although another year was to pass before the mercantile depression would reach its lowest level the markets already were feeling the over-supply of goods, and auctions were being held on many streets. He gained the impression that this quick method of vending was the principal occupation in the city.

It shocked his sense of thrift to observe the great quantity of discarded clothing. Nothing like such waste was to be found in New England. And the mountains of empty bottles caused him to fear the people at the bay were very bibulous. Toward early evening he wandered down to the steamboat company's office and paid ten dollars for a cabin to Sacramento. He could have gone “deck” for seven dollars; and back home none was so affluent as not to save the difference. He eased his conscience by telling himself the undiscovered gold-mine was paying the shot. Yet the latent fear that he was too rapidly succumbing to extravagance influenced him to forego his plan of attending the theater. By not buying a theater-ticket he would save the difference between cabin and deck passage. He would stroll the streets for an hour, eat a light supper (for one must live) and go to bed.

He passed the gambling-halls on Commercial Street, and wondered that men could be so weak as to risk their money on games of chance. He loitered around the ugly, fenced-in plaza, or Portsmouth Square, and took in Dupont and Kearney Streets, ignorant of the ruffianism that lurked in that quarter. The sound of orchestra music brought him to a halt before a brilliantly lighted place. It faced the plaza, but the name, “El Dorado,” told him nothing. A stream of well-dressed men and a sprinkling of women were entering. A few were coming out. A sign by the door read:

MASQUERADE TO-NIGHT. NO WEAPONS ADMITTED

“What's the admission?” he asked a man outside the door.

“Free gratis for nothing,” replied the door-tender. “Shell out your guns and knives.”

“I am unarmed,” Gilbert informed him.

“None of that,” growled the man.

He seized Gilbert by the shoulders and whirled him about and pawed him over most dexterously.

“Well, if you ain't!” exclaimed the man. “Move along.”

Halting inside the door, Gilbert watched several men surrender their arms in exchange for a bit of pasteboard. There were a few who disclaimed possessing either knife or pistol, and these were promptly searched; and in all instances, Gilbert observed, took their bits of pasteboard. Then the quietness of the place was disturbed by a loud whoop, and a figure in fringed buckskin was demanding entrance.

The white hair and yellowish-white beard, and the peculiar garments, at once identified him in Gilbert's mind as the man he had blundered into in front of the hotel. “Shell out your guns and knives,” directed the outer door-tender.

He was joined by an employee stationed inside the door.

“I'll shell 'em out in a Snake village or a Crow camp. I'll shell 'em out when I squat to smoke a pipe with the Sioux. But I don't give 'em up in this lodge,” stoutly and loudly refused the mountain man.

“Then you don't go in, old man.”

The mountain man stared at the door-tender curiously, and his voice was low as he remarked:

“Son, when folks tell Old Misery he can't do a thing, that thing is the very thing he hankers to do. I come with a peace-pipe; but I can paint for war afore you can tell your true name. I'm looking for some one, a streak of scarlet. A tempest'ous young female hellion. Good gal, but she will sneak away from her old grandpap when he forgits hisself and fetches her a crack. I've hunted through a hundred and forty-eight places like this, looking for her. All I want to do is to take a peek inside. Then I'll back-trail.”

“Nary a look till you've shelled out your weapons,” was the firm reply.

Old Misery stroked his beard reflectively. It was obvious to the two men he was weakening.

The second man spoke up and ordered:

“You clear out of here. No place for an old codger like you.”

Old Misery slowly swung his head about to glance at the speaker, and he placidly agreed:

“Mebbe you're right. But, you see, I've always had to find out things for myself. I'll go away—”

“Shuffle along. You're blocking the door.”

“Erhuh. I'll go away,” gently repeated the mountain man. “I'll be gone long enough to take a few snorts of red liquor. When I'm tuned up as I oughter be to enj'y it, I'm coming back and coming through that door. But I ain't ornery, and I won't jump you two grass-and-root Injuns. You'll have warning. You'll hear my war-cry and have time to get your tribe together. Then you hear me make the eagle scream.”

He swung away with the long, sure stride of the mountain man.

The outside guard stared after him blankly; then exploded:

“What 'n hell you make of him, Bill?”

“I dunno,” wearily replied the second man, retreating inside the door. “If he shows up again, which he won't, just heave him over the plaza fence.”

Gilbert was glad the ancient man had not been permitted to enter. The old fellow appeared to be in a quarrelsome mood, and he might recognize the young man who had bumped against him, and make a scene. He also was glad the old fellow had not been misused.

Turning his attention to the long room, he made two discoveries: he was in a gambling-hall, and only a few of those present were masked. Although advertised as a masquerade there was no merriment. Instead of a gay scene of make-believe there were various tables, each with its group of devotees. Almost all the games were presided over by beautiful women elegantly dressed. As his gaze lifted he saw pictures on the wall that made him blush; but as no one appeared to notice them he tarried and slowly ventured down the room.

On his right was a long bar glittering with silver and glass. Back of it and along the other walls was a profusion of mirrors. Bartenders in spotless white were deftly mixing drinks. At the end of the hall, in a balcony that extended nearly across the room, was an orchestra of seven pieces. Gilbert decided he had never heard music until this night. On the left and near the entrance was a roulette wheel. Beyond it, along the wall as well as down the middle of the room, were various bank games. Nearly all the men present wore stove pipe hats, although here and there was a slouch hat. Dress, however, was indicative of nothing in the El Dorado; nor in San Francisco. A tatterdemalion might be a millionaire, while the well-groomed, exquisitely attired individual most likely was a gambler.

Just in front of Gilbert a man and a richly dressed woman sat side by side at a rouge-et-noir table. The man had his arm around the woman's waist and with untiring good-nature was supplying her with money while she feverishly placed bets and repeatedly lost. Their deportment embarrassed Gilbert and he passed on below the bar and halted before a curtained alcove. Just above him were the musicians, the best money could hire in San Francisco, and he watched them for some minutes. He felt at ease because his presence was completely ignored. He renewed his scrutiny of the tables.

Close at hand was a monte game with the usual Mexican dealer, only now it was a young woman. Around it were gathered those desiring a simple game, and monte was ever the favorite with novices. The dealer, too, must have been an attraction. Her crimson lips, her flushed cheeks, and her half-closed, riotous eyes, and the perpetual little smile quirking the corners of her mouth, all made her a tantalizing picture. Red high-heeled slippers and red stockings contrasted vividly with the draperies of black lace and the black lace scarf falling from the top of her high-piled hair. The bodice of her [gown] was shockingly low-cut, decided the Vermonter, whose ideas of evening toilet had been gathered at church socials back home.

At first he disapproved of the woman, or girl—he could not decide on her age. Finally he concluded she was several years younger than himself, and that if not for her bizarre costume she would remind him of one of the Walker girls at home—the dark one. Back of her was a faro layout, endorsed by gamblers and all who preferred big wagers. A low exclamation as some one made a big winning caused the group at the monte table to melt away and view the lucky man.

The girl, left without a patron, smiled at Gilbert, nodded pleasantly and softly called out:

“It is jus' to match the card, Senor Americano.”

Her voice held only a trace of accent and his inborn prejudice against “foreign women” vanished. He suddenly discovered he was lonesome. The orchestra was playing a wailing southern melody that almost made him homesick. He diffidently approached the table, trying to assume an air of worldliness.

She continued smiling in a friendly way and murmured:

“Ah, my boy is in luck to-night. I see luck in his face. A ver' bold caballero. He will make a big keeling.”

He glanced about to discover her boy. She divined his perplexity and laughed at him and explained:

“You, Senor Americano. Luck is in your face. Maria reads the face. She knows when young men come to lose or come to win. My gold trembled when you came to the table.”

Before he could tell her he never gambled she was shrugging her bare shoulders and adding:

“But it is not Maria's money you win. What do I care? It is jus' to match the card. It is ver' simple.”

She was so “neighborly” he longed to talk with her. He mumbled something about “never gambling.” She apparently did not hear him, and began shuffling the cards and nodded for him to place his bet. After all, his paying for the privilege of talking with her a bit would not be gambling. And he fished a gold piece from his pocket and put it down without understanding the game in the least.

He was astounded to find he had won enough to keep him at an excellent hotel for two days. His New England bias, the reflection of teaching rather than the result of experience, began to fade. Surely the institution of gaming could not be wholly evil when it good-naturedly bestowed gold on him. Out of decency he would risk what he had won. In truth, aside from his winning he believed he owed something for the music and the melodious voice so artfully encouraging, praising and admiring him. He learned he was daring and skilful. He threw down a coin and won again.

The girl laughed delightedly, and cooed:

“Let the caballero remember what Maria says. He has luck in his face. Once in a big while a man wins at cards and with women. Is it not so? Sí.”

Gilbert's face grew warm beneath the bold compliment, yet he approved of it. He had always suspected he had a reckless streak in his makeup.

The girl continued: “It is the man who does not care for a bit of gold, or a bit of love, who always wins. Is it not? Sí.”

A rapid calculation told Gilbert he would soon have winnings sufficient to pay all expenses he had incurred in San Francisco. What was especially refreshing was the girl's joy at his success. Then came the insidious, ambitious thought to make the game pay all his expenses from New York. A turn of the card would do it. He trebled his bet as a starter, and lost.

“Nex' time,” she gaily encouraged. “Always make it twice the losings and senor mus' always get it back. Ver' brave in the face. It is such Maria would always have win.”

Flushed and irritated at having the greater part of his gains swept away, Gilbert resolved to win them back. He pulled his gold from his pocket, but lacked enough to double the last wager.

Before he could venture what he had the girl was murmuring: “Senor is hones'. He will pay out of his winnings. Maria knows an hones' man.” She placed some coins to one side. “It is not allowed, but senor is hones'.”

She was a good girl, he told himself. She wanted him to win. He was sure to win next time. He nodded to show he accepted the bank's credit and put down his money. The card was dealt, and he was dismayed to see his gold crossing the table. She pouted in pretty chagrin.

“Nev' mind,” she soothed. “Behind the curtains senor can take off his money-belt. Then come back while he has the game alone. Last night a young Americano lost and lost, but took away sixteen t'ousand dollars with him before he stopped.”

Her liquid eyes opened and grew very round as she imparted this bit of information.

There was no question about his removing the money-belt she so shrewdly guessed he was wearing; he owed her money. It was nothing serious, yet it bothered him and wounded his pride. He could easily explain to the Coloma men he had run out of funds and had borrowed a trifle. He passed behind the curtains and got at his belt and extracted three twenty-dollar gold pieces. That would cover the debt to the girl. His fare to Sacramento and room rent for the night were paid. As he was replacing the belt he realized he must have something to live on and pay stage-coach fare, and he might as well borrow it from the belt now as later. Then temptation took him by the throat and demanded why he lacked courage to bet at least three times more in an effort to recover his losses. And his fumbling fingers pulled out several more double-eagles.

When he returned to the table a waiter had just left, after depositing a large goblet of champagne.

“For you, Senor Americano. A gif' from the house,” the girl informed him.

He scarcely knew the taste of liquor and never had seen champagne. But it looked very harmless, and excitement had parched his throat. He sipped, approved and emptied the goblet.

“Mighty good tasting cider,” he endorsed as he paid his debt.

He won a “bravo” by proceeding to bet, winning and losing for some minutes. Suddenly he realized he had the courage of a small lion. It hurt him scarcely any when he lost. He was a millionaire in optimism. High gods were smiling on him. The gold pieces multiplied and dwindled. When they crossed the table he smiled reassuringly at the girl; they would return. All the time he was conscious of the music and found it a pleasing background while he dramatized himself in a dashing rôle.

The waiter brought a fresh goblet, and he tossed it off and his luck ceased see-sawing and he won quite steadily. He was more than a thousand dollars ahead and drank to his luck. Now his heart was that of a full grown Numidian lion. All others in the room, except the laughing girl, were pygmies. He never felt so scornful of humanity in his life before.

His ambition expanded. Expense money and the winnings before him were nothing. The El Dorado looked to have much gold. Surely his gold-mine was here in stead of in the hills. And he found himself returning an empty goblet to the table without remembering having picked it up. At times the face of the laughing girl was a bit blurred. It impressed him as being very humorous that the El Dorado should be conducted, and music furnished, just for his benefit. He laughed heartily at the quaintness of it all.

He found himself emerging from the alcove with a handful of gold. He could not recall whether he retired to conceal his winnings or to borrow from the belt. The latter thought was dismissed as being impossible. He could not have lost his winnings without knowing it. However, there were the table and the smiling girl and she was waiting for him to place a bet. That he should continue to be the only player at the table touched his curiosity none. Had he seen her signal to the floorman to steer away would-be patrons of the game he would have found nothing sinister in it. With kindly egotism he would have set it down to her preference for his company. He was fond of Maria. He put down all his gold and raised the goblet, and over the rim saw the double eagles traitorously desert him for the other side of the table. He replaced the goblet untasted and made for the alcove.

There must have been moments of realization and moments of frenzy behind the curtains before he came to himself partly sobered; for the empty belt on the small table was ripped to pieces, showing how desperately he had searched. And one of his trousers pockets was inside out. He dug his hand into the other and found it empty. The shock quite sobered him. His head was aching severely. It was incredible, monstrous. He pawed back the heavy hangings on the wall, thinking they were the curtains between the alcove and the hall. He found a window and forced it open and rested his head on the sill while the night air played over him and further restored his wits. He had his ticket to Sacramento, his blanket roll and carpet-bag, and that was all.

Turning back to the curtains, he stood between them, clutching them with both hands, and glared at the smiling monte dealer; only now she was smiling on a grizzled miner and coaxing:

“Senor has the luck in his face. Is it not? Sí.”

“None o' that for me, you hussy,” growled the miner as he passed on.

Had he had his Allen's revolver with him Gilbert's despair might have urged him to end his existence, thereby probably inflicting serious injury on several in the main hall. He rushed to the table and fiercely accused: “You've ruined me!”

“La, la,” she derisively returned, leaning back and resting her slim brown hands on her hips and tilting her head to smile up at him. “Men always blame the woman. Is it not? Sí. If senor will bet like a mad-man how could Maria stop him? Let him get more gold and come back and break my poor little bank.”

“God help me!” groaned Gilbert, too overwhelmed to sustain an angry mood. “It was not my money I lost. I am a thief!”

The girl's laugh died out. A slim-built man, wearing a rich Mexican costume and a narrow half-mask, had paused behind Gilbert in time to hear the agonized confession, and he laughed aloud. Gilbert heard the laugh but was beyond resenting it. The world was now divided into two factions: those who would mock and deride, and those, whom he had called friends, who would be horrified by his crime. Neither pity nor exculpation awaited him. The gay caballero swung around the table and nodded slightly as he glanced down into the awe-filled eyes of the girl and then passed on to the faro table where some forty thousand dollars in gold were stacked in double-eagles and fifty-dollar slugs. Five other masked men, all wearing the Mexican costume, were also deeply interested in the faro game. Gilbert returned to the alcove and the open window.

The door-tender was yawning and wishing the night was over. He turned his head to remark as much to the man stationed a few feet inside the entrance. Then his mind was diverted by a hand clutching his collar and jamming him back against the door-casing; and the white-bearded man in buckskin was informing him:

“Never told a lie in my life when I could help it. Promised on the pipe to come back, and here I be. Fit as a fiddle now to wade through—!”

He frightened the helpless door-tender by lifting a raucous voice and beginning to sing something in a strange tongue. Then in English he was crying:

“Whoop! Sorter prickles your hide, does it? It oughter. The scalp-dance song of the Chippewa. They sing it when returning from the Sioux country with scalps on long poles. I'm fit as a fiddle, I tell you. I'm 'Old Misery,' half timber-wolf, half grizzly, and I'm going inside with my war-paint on.”

The second man recovered from his astonishment and sprang through the door. The door-tender, now he was being reënforced, remembered he was hired for his muscular ability, and he attacked the old man. There was a rare flurry of revolving arms and legs that attracted and held the attention of the patrons.

Then a man was shooting along the floor on his stomach toward the roulette wheel, and the other caromed against the end of the bar.

The mountain man was standing erect, grinning ferociously and defying:

“I never give up my weepins. Let the head Injun of this wigwam call in his braves and chuck me out. Whoop! 'I'm dancing round a man's scalp.' There's a song for you! I've heard it when it meant bloody heads. Bring on your fighting men; for I'm looking for a streak of scarlet, whose old grandpap wants her back with him; and I'm gentle's hell looking for trouble.”

Down the room Maria gave a squeal of fear.

Old Misery's quick gaze picked her out, and he bellowed:

“You young limb of sin, come here! You white folks keep back. That gal's got to go with me into the mountains. Any one cuts in and he'll think he's met up with old Flat Mouth, chief of the Pillager Chippewas. Maria, I'm waiting.”

She started hurriedly up the room. The dealer of the faro game yelled:

“Don't let any one out! I'm robbed! Six masked men, dressed like greasers!”

Gilbert heard the clamor and started to leave the alcove. Six men came through the curtains; and the one who had laughed at him flung him half across the table.

From the hall men were shouting:

“Some one brings us guns!”

The leader of the bandits thrust his hand through the curtains and with two shots extinguished as many lights.

One of the masked men exclaimed in English:

“We must shoot our way out before they get guns!”

Gilbert realized they were in some great trouble; that there was danger of some one being killed. He yanked back the wall curtains and revealed the open window. As women shrieked in the hall, and as men shouted and cursed and scrambled to obtain weapons, the bandits leaped through the opening, the leader going last. And each was carrying a heavy bag in each hand with the exception of the leader who carried one bag, a small one.

As the leader lighted on the sidewalk Gilbert, now thoroughly scared, landed on his back, sending him on his hands and knees into the road. Gilbert rolled against the side of the building and struck something that jingled. The bandit leader, now erect, fired shots through the open window but did not see the figure against the wall He turned and ran after his men. Gilbert got to his feet and, clutching the bag under his coat, ran in the opposite direction.

It was pandemonium inside the hall. Maria crawled under a table and Old Misery dragged her out and yelled commands in her small ear. Then he was through the alcove and through the window and running like a deer after the six men, now far up the street. And as he ran he fired with a Colt's thirty-eight. One of the men dropped behind a drygoods box. On ran the mountain man, sounding his Chippewa war-whoop, alternating it with a similar defiance in the Crow and Blackfoot tongues. A streak of flame shot over the top of the box. Old Misery left the ground, and while in mid-air fired down at the crouching figure.

He was standing by the dead body when men began pouring around the corner of the hall and jumping through the alcove window.

“Is it Joaquin?” cried the foremost.

The mountain man removed the mask and grunted in disgust.

“Only one of his men. Chief told him to drop back and git my scalp as I was the only man in the street. Lucky I fit my way in there to-night, or you wouldn't 'a' had even one pelt to show. I don't want his ha'r. I'll be going.”

“See anything of a young feller, dressed like a' eastern greenhorn, or an Englishman?” cried the faro dealer.

“No. If you send horsemen outside the city you may pick up their trails. They'll split up. Better watch the boats. Some may try to git away by water.”

He turned and trotted around to the entrance of the El Dorado, and this time no one attempted to halt him. The place was in great confusion. The name of “Joaquin Murieta” was being tossed about in tones of fear.

“Faugh! A grass-'n'-root Injun could make these greenhorns run,” he derided.

Then he passed to the monte table where the girl Maria sat with head bowed and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Did you get him?” she whispered without lifting her head.

“Along of stopping to make sure of you and making my word good to old Miguel I didn't have a chance to catch even a' ox. Now you git to cover and change into honest clothes. You'd shame a 'Rikara squaw. You're going back with me in the morning. You'll be lucky if somebody don't think you stood in cahoots with that—skunk. He was round your table. And I can remember when they hung a woman of your race in Downieville.”

She shivered with fear, and whispered:

“I have been a bad girl, Senor Comandante. I will be at the boat in the morning.”

“You ain't bad at heart, Maria. Just a trifle wild. Your grandpap won't lambast you again. I've give him his orders. But this trick was nervy and like Joaquin. Wish I could 'a' come to grips with him. But he can't keep it up. They'll yet be showing his head and 'Three-Fingered Jack's' crippled hand right here in this town.”

At the same moment the mountain man was finishing his prophecy Gilbert was blocks away, making for his lodgings. It was some time before he could locate the house, and he might have been remarked for his wild expression and disheveled appearance had not the visit of the Sonora Tiger thrown that section of the city into an uproar.

Once his heart nearly ceased beating as he halted in the shadow of a wall and heard a man telling a group of other men:

“They weren't all greasers, I tell you. Joaquin had help from a young fool of an American or an Englishman, who was losing a pot of gold at the monte table while waiting for the band to strike. He was in that small room two or three times before they got the gold, two bags to a man. And he went through the winder with them. If I lay my peepers on him he'll stretch a rope fine.”

Death at the hands of a mob seemed very close. He flattened himself against the wall, hoping the darkness would save him. Help came in the guise of the fire-bell. He did not know what it meant, but every denizen of San Francisco knew who had lived there a year. Joaquin Murieta was forgotten for the time. The frightened populace poured from hotels and lodging-houses and homes, from gambling-halls and drinking-resorts. Important business conferences were broken up, and theaters were emptied. A hoarse shouting filled the streets; then came the punctuating clamor of the racing fire-companies. The tramping of feet over the planked streets gave off a dull booming sound.

Gilbert pressed on, and a man directly in front of him yelled:

“By heavens! If it ain't the Rassette House!”

The wild thought entered Gilbert's head to claim he lost his gold in the fire. This suggested the fiction Joaquin had robbed him of it in the El Dorado. But he knew he could not persevere in any deception. Some of the Gilberts might be fools, but it was an honest strain. However, it was the burning of the hotel Gilbert had quit that morning that afforded him a safe passage to his humble lodgings. A strong northeast wind was blowing, and only the improvements in fire protection saved the entire city from being consumed. Men were running to their stores and offices to save precious papers.

Gilbert, running madly for his room near the wharves, was not noticed. All was confusion. Panting from fear rather than from exhaustion, Gilbert stood at his window and watched the ruddy splotch on the sky widen and brighten. He did not remember the bag he had brought along with him and had dropped on the bed until he tried to sleep. It contained three hundred dollars. It be longed to some one, perhaps to the management of the El Dorado. But the hall had taken more than a hundred dollars of his money and fourteen hundred of gold he had been carrying in trust for certain men in Coloma. He counted the three hundred dollars as his legitimately. Toward morning he dozed off a bit; then feared he would miss the boat and arose and set forth with his luggage at sunrise.

In a small eating-house on the wharf he obtained beefsteak and coffee and heard the proprietor discussing the fire and Joaquin, the mountain robber, with his patrons.

“Greasers probably got clear of the town. Must 'a' had hosses close by,” he remarked.

“Some talk about a young Englishman helping them to get away,” mumbled a customer.

“Young American, not English,” corrected the proprietor. “The men ain't taking any chances! All boats will be watched.”

“They all say the greasers rode for it, but that the young feller never quit the town,” spoke up another. “He's the one they plan to pick up. Figure he planned the robbery, knowing the lay of the land. El Dorado people say that window is hid by hangings and ain't been open for a long time. No one with weapons got by the door.

“Young feller opened the window and guns was passed in to him by a greaser outside. He stuck to the monte table till the outlaws come by. He either give them guns then, or left them in the little room, where all they had to do was step in and get them.”

“That was damn well planned!” exclaimed the proprietor. “Those cusses are keen all right.”

“That old man who come in and got every one to watching him strikes me as being another of the band,” suggested a third man.

Hoots of derision greeted this surmise, and the proprietor indignantly cried:

“No truth in it. That was Old Misery from up in the hills. Sells bears and animals to the miners and the towns. Good Lawd! He's the one that shot and killed one of the band. They say the dead man is 'Scar-Faced' Luis, Joaquin's best shot.”

“Be back in a minute,” Gilbert told the proprietor, who was broiling his steak. “Feel ailing and want to get some whisky.”

“Keep squatting,” said the proprietor, and he set forth a bottle.

It warmed his stomach and made him feel better, and he tried another. Then he was able to eat his breakfast. With bold step he left the eating-house and went to discover what new evil fate had in store for him. His artificial courage vanished the moment he beheld two grim-visaged men, with big revolvers in their belts, standing at the foot of the gang-plank with the ship's officers. He mingled with the gathering crowd to escape their gaze. He was still striving to discover some way of boarding the boat unseen when he halted beside a handsome woman whose seductive eyes met his and frankly appraised his eastern clothes and beardless face.

To a short stout man who appeared to be attending her she remarked:

“Look here, Roger. He'd make a good juvenile. He has the air.”

Roger examined Gilbert's confused face critically and growled:

“None of that, Lola. You'd have every cub in California trailing after you. Then there'll be more trouble. Wait till after we've played Sacramento and the other towns before casting your siren spell.”

She laughed heartily and again directed her bold gaze at Gilbert's flushed face. Desperation dispelled embarrassment. He managed to smile and ask:

“Are you a play-actress?”

“Good lord, young man!” loudly exploded Roger. “Mean you don't know by sight the wonderful and beautiful Lola Montez?”

“I've heard lots about her. I shall go and see her if she plays in Sacramento,” recklessly lied Gilbert.

“You're a dear,” said the actress. “But I'll wager you've heard naughty stories about me. Nevertheless, you shall be my theater guest at Sacramento. Roger, you be sure he gets a ticket.”

“If all your admirers are passed in free we won't have a cent in the house,” grumbled Roger. “I'll fix him.”

Miss Montez was laughing shrilly at the compliment as the crowd surged forward. She was beaming on Gilbert coquettishly as they mounted the gang-plank. Gilbert with his face turned toward the actress thrust out his ticket and felt it plucked from his fingers.

One of the men with revolvers called out:

“Pleasant trip, Miss Montez. Many nuggets, and come back soon.”

She laughed shrilly and waved her hand. Once on deck Gilbert glanced back and saw the two citizens stop and sharply question three young men. Then he took his luggage to his cabin and ventured forth to find Miss Montez. He believed she was his shield and buckler. But she had retired to her cabin to make up some sleep.

Roger, however, was at the bar telling the thirsty crowd what a great actress Lola Montez was. Gilbert worked to his side so as to be identified with him; and he prayed that the boat would start. Each second he expected a posse to invade the deck and find him and drag him forth. His fright was accented by comments of the drinkers on the robbery—Joaquin's visit took precedence over the fire as the latter was stopped after the hotel was destroyed.

“No man had a pistol or a knife on him when he passed through the door except that old goat of a mountain man,” a voice declared. “That proves some one had the pistols inside, waiting for the Mexican——."

“But if every one was searched how could any one carry 'em in?” some one inquired.

“It was that young cuss who lit out with Joaquin,” insisted the first speaker. “And he didn't have any pistol or knife when he went in. Door-tender remembers he's the only man who told the truth when he said he was unarmed. But he opened the winder in the little room, and pistols was passed in to him. Joaquin was smart to pick a night when no one would be wearing pistols.”

“If they could pass pistols through the window why didn't the robbers enter that way?” asked a Sacramento merchant. “Now I was there, and I figure it out this way. A woman carried the pistols in.”

“Damn me, pard! That sounds like book wisdom!" exclaimed the first speaker. “That's how it was played. The young feller who opened the winder got the pistols from the woman and had them ready for the robbers!”

Gilbert feared he would be recognized. He imagined men were casting curious glances at him; yet he did not dare leave the now garrulous Roger. Other male members of the troupe joined the two, so that one would get the impression the easterner was a member of the company. At last the long white hundred-thousand-dollar craft—it cost the owners thirty thousand to send it from New York to the bay—began to vibrate. The crowd at the bar hurried on deck and the young man drew his first free breath. The electric telegraph was being discussed, but had not yet connected San Francisco with the outside towns. In Roger's company Gilbert watched the sights of this, the beginning of the two-hundred-mile journey. Barring accident they would reach Sacramento in ten hours.

Scarcely had the boat got under way than Gilbert's attention was held by a man in buckskin, standing well forward and leaning on a Hawkins rifle. He did not need to glimpse the bearded face to know it was the old mountain man. White locks were streaming from under the hat fashioned out of wildcat's skin. In watching the man he saw nothing of beautiful Oakland across the bay. Old Misery remained motionless, ever staring to the northeast. There was no sign of the Mexican girl. Fearing the mountain man would turn about and recognize him, he retired to his cabin and lay down.

He experienced a rare fright when the boat made Benecia, twenty-five miles from the bay, and a detachment of soldiers from the military post came aboard. The soldiers, however, were not looking for fugitives and lost no time in dropping on the deck and going to sleep. They were bound for Fort Reading, far up the Sacramento. The boat proceeded. The little town, once the capital of the state, now the principal depot of commissary stores of the Department of the Pacific and containing the machine-shops of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, slipped astern.

On the south side of the straits insignificant Martinez, pleasantly situated with a background of low-rounded hills and still boasting redwoods despite the intrusion of sawmills, was unseen by the perturbed voyager. Not until the boat entered Suisun Bay did Gilbert venture to leave his cabin. He did not wander more than twenty feet from it for fear of meeting the mountain man. But the latter remained in the bow, still staring toward the northeast. Gilbert was now convinced the Mexican girl Maria was keeping close in her cabin if aboard. He believed she had provided weapons for the bandits. His recollections were very clear in spots, much as a man emerges occasionally from a heavy fog long enough to get his bearings. From the moment the bandit leader laughed at him he recalled everything. And he suspected the fellow was near the monte table some time before his memory picked him up.

Yet Joaquin Murieta of the yellow-and-black serape was but a name to the easterner. As men talked of his daring and bloody deeds Gilbert for the first time realized that securing gold from the ground was but a part of a miner's endeavor; there remained the task of conveying the treasure to an express-office. Ghastly stories of murdered men found on trails and in lonely cabins, over a range of five hundred miles, dropped into Gilbert's ears as the passengers strolled by his position. One man recalled how the governor's recent reward-offer had been found pinned to a murdered deputy-sheriff's shirt, with the outlaw's defiance added, to the effect:

I myself will give ten thousand.—Joaquin.

From the odds and ends of gossip Gilbert began to build up a picture of the fellow. Joaquin was a fiend, reckless to the point of insanity and yet as cunning as a fox. His hunting-ground was described as extending from Shasta to Sonoma, from Nevada City and Marys ville to Sacramento, through Livermore Pass near Martinez, throughout Mariposa and far south.

“He always keeps the Sacramento and the San Joaquin between him and the coast so he can't be cooped up,” insisted one man.

“Yet he was in Frisco last night,” reminded his companion.

From another group came the proud assertion:

“I seen him once. Blackest hair you ever see, and curly. Eyes black. Wore four dragoon revolvers, and always that yaller-and-black striped serape.”

Other bandits were mentioned, Claudio of the Coast, John Irving and Salamon Pico, but all such, Gilbert gathered, were mere incidents of lawlessness when compared with Murieta. The latter was an institution. He wondered at being alive after being in contact with such a blood-thirsty creature.

“An' that Mex gal was Ana Benites, one of his gang,” declared a miner.

Gilbert stole back to his cabin. Mention of the girl brought uppermost in his mind the ordeal confronting him once he reached Coloma. He must confess his sin and wait for the Vermont men to fix his punishment. Soul-sick, he took no interest in the changing scenes. Lying face down and feeding on his misery, he fell asleep.

It was late afternoon and hoarse commands were being shouted when he awoke. And he knew the long journey was ended. The bulk of the impatient passengers had swarmed ashore by the time he gained the deck. He saw nothing of the mountain man. He was glad to walk beside Lola Montez as she crossed the top of the eight-foot levee. He spoke to her. She was in a bad humor and treated him disdainfully. Roger, however, was amiably drunk and vowed he loved Gilbert as a brother.

Once clear of the levee, Gilbert slipped away from the theatrical people and followed a group of miners to a large hotel which proved to be the starting-point for the many stage-coaches. The framed houses, invariably painted white and trimmed with green, reminded him of New England and filled him with homesickness. He was surprised to find he was hungry, secured a seat at the second table and ate heartily. Then he went to bed.

At five o'clock in the morning the hotel was clamorous with activity. Hurriedly dressing and descending to the office, he learned he would have time to eat before the Coloma stage left if he “looked sharp.” When he worked his way to the street it was to find the broad thoroughfare filled with four-horse coaches, drawn up four and five abreast. Each had its destination painted on the sides, and he commenced a frantic search for the one marked “Coloma.”

He became confused and bewildered by the yelling and bawling of the drivers and the activity of the “runners” in dragging men to this or that vehicle. Then there was the persistency of groups ahead of him in turning back for “just one more,” and the determination of those behind him in moving forward. Nor did the restless horses and the profane rivalry of the hostlers tend to clarify his wits. Yet there was no difficulty in finding any coach did a man ignore the commotion and use his eyes.

From the welter of discordant sounds emerged a heavy voice crying: “Coloma! Who's bound for Coloma? Only two seats left. Step smart”

Gilbert frantically plunged toward the voice and collided with a man turning back for a parting dram. Then he was violently seized by a man who yelled in his ear:

“Placerville, called Hangtown! Take you there in five hours (the running time was eight). One seat left!”

“No! No!” Gilbert told him. “I want—”

“Ho, Joey! Gent bound for your place!” bawled the “runner”; and he clung to Gilbert until a husky fellow had fought his way through the crowd to relieve him.

“I'm going to Coloma,” Gilbert informed him.

This runner smelled strongly of morning whisky, and his eyes were inclined to roll. Yet his manner was assuring and his smile benevolent as he seized Gilbert's carpet bag and forcibly rammed him along between two lines of impatient coaches.

“I'm going—” began Gilbert.

“All right, pard. We can book you to hell 'n' back 'fore you can tell it,” heartily boomed the runner. “We'll put you through hell fluking. Got the best driver in the world. Yuba Bill. But can't he handle the ribbons!”

And he dropped the bag and all but hurled Gilbert in the middle seat of the huge, high-hung coach. Gilbert landed heavily, and his bag shot up into his lap. A big man clambered in and pushed him away from the side. Another man entered from the other side. Wedged firmly between the two, his blanket-roll and bag on his knees, Gilbert was still marveling at the expeditious fashion of filling a coach when the coaches ahead began to move.

Then all were in motion. Drivers cracked their whips and swore explosively at the leaders and took homicidal chances of running down the scurrying hostlers. Passengers whooped joyously. For half a mile the mad pell-mell continued; then the procession began to break up as the coaches turned off in different directions. Finally Gilbert's conveyance had the road to itself.

It was his first sight of California away from a town. He missed the fences and walls and ditches and low farm-houses of Vermont. It was a strange world, and he would have been exhilarated by the illimitable stretches of plain and undulating hills if not for the realization that every speeding mile was taking him that much nearer to the climax of his shame.

A low soft laugh behind him interrupted his dismal brooding. He managed to twist his head. There was no mistaking her although the evening gown of lace was replaced by a prim white blouse and brown skirt. A soft white hat surmounted the coils of black hair. Nor was there any mistaking the old man asleep at her side, his dark-veined hands clutching the barrel of a Hawkins rifle held upright between his knees.

“You?” mumbled Gilbert. “You're going to Coloma?”

Her white teeth showed, and she shook her head and murmured:

“No more than you go to Coloma, senor.”

“I'm going there,” he fiercely muttered.

She stared at him in bewilderment for a few seconds, then softly asked:

“How can senor go to Coloma this way?”

“Doesn't the driver know the road?” he impatiently replied.

The girl appeared to be stupid.

“Si. But this is the stage for Nevada City.”

“Hi, driver! Stop! I must get out!” he cried, trying to rise.

Ceasing her silent laughter, she leaned forward and hissed in his ear:

“Keep still. One can always go to Coloma. But Nevada City! All the gold in the world is around it!”

“Huh?” bawled the driver, beginning to rein in. “What's the row in there?”

“Never mind, Yuba. It is all right,” shrilly called back the girl. “A ver' great caballero would ride faster.

CHAPTER II

MR. PETERS TO THE RESCUE

MR. PETERS, gambler but no stoic, stood at the end of the bar in the largest gambling resort in Nevada City and shuffled a handful of double-eagles as a man shuffles cards. He was waiting to keep an important appointment with some of the profession from Marysville and was filling in the time with a desultory conversation with the head bartender. As he talked and listened he idly watched the groups about the different games.

Personally he cared only for poker and faro. He was portly of build, and, although a wicked derringer was in each waistcoat pocket, there was nothing of the gambling man in either his appearance or bearing. His round face beamed with genuine good-nature. That he was a citizen of some eminence in the community was testified to by the bartender's eagerness to draw a fresh glass of lager without being requested to do so. He was proud to be the recipient of any remarks Mr. Peters might be so good as to utter.

“And so Old Misery has fetched that young gal back,” murmured the drink-mixer as Mr. Peters rested his elbows on the bar and watched Phelps, a Grass Valley millionaire and looking a beggar in his ragged attire and ruin of a hat, methodically stake small sums at roulette.

“Uh huh. Brought her back. Girl's all right, Little wild, like a young colt, that's all. Her grandfather, old Miguel, must be the devil to live with. Don't blame her for cutting loose once in a while. Misery found her in a gambling place. Of course she had no business there.”

“Is it true about Old Misery killing one of Murieta's men?”

“True as the deuce is a low card. Plumb between the eyes. Scar-Faced Luis. When's Misery going back to camp?”

“To-morrow, he 'lows. Told the girl to start in the morning. He's on a little spree. Claimed in here the trip to the bay broke up the one he had started on after selling the last bear.”

“Heard some one saying he threatened a man who made talk about Bill Williams,” lazily prompted Mr. Peters.

“It was a greenhorn. When he saw Bill coming he yanks out a Allen pepper-box and let on he was about to shoot. Misery pulled his butcher-knife and promised to split his heart at thirty feet. Greenhorn ran.”

“Coroner has held an Allen isn't a deadly weapon,” mused Mr. Peters with a yawn. “Any one who'd hurt Bill Williams ought to be carved. Bill's clever's a kitten. Still there's always the chance of a stranger not understanding him. I’ve told Misery he ought to quit fetching him down here. I’m glad he fetched Maria back.”

“If old Miguel don't beat her again.”

Mr. Peters shrugged his broad shoulders and assured the other:

“He won't do it again. Old Misery told him words he'll always remember.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a drunken sailor bursting through the doorway and with wide steps bearing down on the bar. His weathered face and scant locks suggested many years on the deep. But his eyes, focused on the bar, were young and lively with anticipation. In order not to shift his course he rumbled to Mr. Peters:

“Avast there, mate. Plenty of anchorage. Don't foul my hawser.”

The bartender eyed him stonily.

Mr. Peters smiled indulgently, and reminded him:

“No more, Ben. You know Weymouth Mass has passed word you've had enough. Two weeks of it now.”

But Ben was very determined; and from the gaze cast back at the door it was plain he feared pursuit. Scowling ferociously at the bartender and fumbling awkwardly for his sheath knife, he growled:

“Dish up the grog, or you'll be drifting astern.”

Mr. Peters laughed softly and warned him:

“Here comes Weymouth to give you your needings. I don't know what he'll do when he learns rum makes you blood-hungry.”

“Hell and blue water, mate! Don't tell him,” the sailor earnestly begged of the bartender.

The man taking long strides down the room stood several inches over six feet and wore a huge beard that reached to his belt. Sailor Ben hung his head like a child caught at pantry-sweets.

The newcomer, originally known by another name but now dubbed “Weymouth Mass” because of an early habit of boasting that the second oldest town in Massachusetts was his birthplace, clamped a mighty hand on the old sailor's shoulder and in a deep bass rebuked him:

“It won't do, Ben, and you know it. You know it's time for you to stand a four weeks' watch on deck. You know you’ve got to begin now. Why dread it? No more liquor, or you'll be called forward.” Then to the gambler:

“Lawd! But he’s an awful trial, Mr. Peters. His watch below, as he calls it, was up yesterday. And here he is ravin' 'round after more rum. Two weeks and one day ago he came down here and went to a slop-shop and bought a new outfit, as he always does when he starts in on a spree.”

The sailor glanced down at his stained clothes and apologetically explained:

“Always like to start that way. Makes me feel I'm just ashore from a long cruise.”

“He wastes my dust to get drunk on,” berated Weymouth Mass. To the bartender:

“He can have just one glass of beer to wash out his throat.”

“Any luck the last trip?” inquired Mr. Peters, amusedly watching the sailor struggle between the desire to bolt the beer and blurred reason's urging that he make it last.

The miner glanced about to make sure there were no eavesdroppers and confidentially whispered:

“I believe we were on the track of the mother-lode when Ben ran away and bought his outfit. I chased him way to Marysville where he was finishing his watch below deck. To-morrow I'll take him up to Old Misery's place and get him in trim.”

“I signed, sir, on terms of a month on deck and no grog, and two weeks below with grog,” sullenly reminded Ben.

“Silence, you graceless dog!” roared Weymouth Mass. “You’re a day over the limit.”

Dropping his voice he continued to Mr. Peters: “Every one knows a Dutchman is lucky. Of course every one knows a sailor's lucky; luckier'n a Dutchman. Luckier'n a fool, even.”

“Of course,” readily agreed the gambler.

“And that an old sailor, drunk, is luckier'n anything on two legs.”

“Draw to it every time!” heartily agreed Mr. Peters.

“And that's why I say I must strike it rich some time and make enough to return to Weymouth, Massachusetts, and for Ben to drink himself to death. Sometimes I think Old Misery don’t put much stock in Ben's luck.”

“Oh, he must,” insisted Mr. Peters. “They say he's whooping it up again.”

“Only for a day. Came down and sold a bear and started in, then had to quit to go to the bay. He's just licking up a few drinks he overlooked by going away. There's a man who knows how to handle liquor.”

“He can handle a lot of it,” admiringly declared the gambler.

The bartender nodded violently.

“What's the news from Marysville?”

“Word come there's more murders up Bidwell's Bar way. They say Joaquin did the job. Two men was noosed with a rope and dragged off their hosses and killed. That's greaser style.”

Mr. Peters looked very grave and muttered:

“Some day that Mexican will stop a large hunk of lead. More than a year of his deviltry now. We've had enough.”

“That's about all I heard—was mighty busy chasing around after Ben. I did hear that a new play-actor woman, a Lola Montez, is coming to Marysville Soon and will probably come here, or Grass Valley, and give a show.”

“She's a humdinger!” muttered Mr. Peters. Gilbert, hesitating in the doorway, glanced about the long room; then advanced toward the bar. His gaze was a bit wild and swung uneasily from side to side.

“Acts like somebody was chasing him,” commented the miner as he took the sailor by the shoulder and dragged him from the bar. “I’ve got to get Ben to bed. Good luck.”

“May you always fill your hand if it's stronger'n the other man's,” heartily replied Mr. Peters.

Then he rested his elbows on the bar and watched the easterner. Gilbert halted, discovered he was close to a monte table and with a little shudder edged away. He was jingling some coins in his pocket and seemed undecided as to what he would do. Mr. Peters’ gaze became interested. He believed the young man might make a big winning.

A drunken old sailor was readily accepted as having the best luck in hunting gold. There were the three sober sailors who first worked Murderer's Bar and took out eleven pounds of gold a day; had they been half-seas over undoubtedly they would have taken out twenty. And this newcomer acted erratic enough to suggest a mental unbalance. Mr. Peters was a firm believer in the luck of an irresponsible man, especially if he were a greenhorn. Of course some friendly person should be near to drag him away when he was at the top of his winnings.

“That fellow's to cards what old Ben is to gold mines,” he mused.

Gilbert was now lingering near the faro game. Mr. Peters endorsed his choice. It was his favorite bank game, and there was less chance for trickery in it than in monte. Besides, an American usually was the dealer. Mr. Peters was disappointed when Gilbert turned and approached the bar. Evidently the greenhorn lacked spirit and was not worth considering. In a low voice Gilbert called for a glass of beer. While it was being drawn he kept glancing at the tables.

“Believes he shouldn't lay a bet, but wants to like hell,” mused the gambler, his opinion of the young man growing more favorable.

He was wrong in his conclusion. Instead of struggling against temptation to gamble Gilbert was striving to bring himself to the point where he would risk Joaquin's three hundred dollars of stolen gold in an effort to win back the money he had lost so foolishly at monte. But his experience in the El Dorado had so sickened his soul he could not bear to risk even chance money.

During the last forty-eight hours he had lived more than had his grandfather, still hale and hearty at ninety three. And all the peaks of his experiences were very bitter to contemplate. Since arriving, an unwilling passenger, in Nevada City he had thought much of his home. The memories always terminated with him taking his lamp and going up to the low-ceilinged bedroom where hung a cardboard motto reading, “Waste not; want not.” And what a woeful waster he had been; a waster of other people's money. By accident he had taken the wrong stage; rather he had been shanghaied into it. He had seen nothing of the Mexican girl since leaving the stage, and he hoped he never would see her again. Nor did he care to meet again the dreadful old man who seemed to be her companion.

“I never dreamed of doing it,” he muttered to his glass of beer, and unconscious of the portly man at his elbow.

Then he neglected his beer and once more wearily endeavored to rearrange his thoughts and discover why he had done it. He feared it was because Maria had made him think of the dark-complexioned girl back home, but he tried not to admit as much. And what would the Vermont girl think if she could know the company he had kept after landing in San Francisco! She was sure to learn much of it. Therein was the curse of living. He must tell the men in Coloma, and they would write back home. Doubtless they would refuse to believe he had spent so much time cooped up in the hotel. They were more likely to credit him with spending the days in wild dissipation.

“I’ll never go back,” he sighed. Then quite fiercely: “I simply can't go back after that.”

He forgot the beer and turned away to stare at the tables. The sight of them sickened him; so many hideous monsters. Never again was he to risk a penny on a game of chance; only he did not know it. In fact, he was still striving to screw up his courage to the necessary pitch. But it couldn't be done on beer, and the thought of whisky gagged him.

From the rouge-et-noir game a monotonous voice was calling:

“Make your bets, gentlemen. The game is made—Five—Eleven—Seventeen—Twenty—”

He lost the other numbers, but with staccato clearness came the announcement:

“Red Wins!”

If he only had had the courage and had staked his three hundred on the red He started abruptly for the door.

With a quickness and lightness of step never to be suspected in a man of his bulk Mr. Peters kept at his heels. A few feet from the door he placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.

“Oh, my God!” gasped Gilbert, cringing beneath what he believed to be the hand of lynch-law.

Mr. Peters pushed him between red curtains and into a small room and thrust him into a chair. It was horribly reminiscent of the alcove in the El Dorado, and he glanced at the wall for heavy hangings concealing a window.

“None of that, youngster! I know the look,” growled Mr. Peters.

“I wasn't thinking to do anything wrong,” insisted Gilbert.

“You’ve made a fool of yourself. Probably lost your pile, and think you can get it back by jumping into Deer Crick,” continued the gambler sternly. “Yes, that's what your game is, damn you! You haven't guts enough to use either a gun or a knife, but must go to cluttering up the crick and cause folks to lose time in fishing you out. You will gamble, and when you lose you will snuff out your candle and leave us decent men to pay for burying you and spend time writing lying letters home to make them think you was killed by a cave-in or by Indians.”

“I’ve got to do something harder than dying,” protested Gilbert. “But it never would have happened if the sign hadn't said it was a masquerade and that no weapons would be admitted.”

Never before had he ever felt such a longing to confide at least a portion of his troubles in some one.

“It's true I helped him get away, but I didn't know who he was. Or I’d died first.”

“Easy. Easy. Of course you didn't know,” soothed the gambler, believing the young fellow's mind had snapped.

“I didn't even know what had happened until I heard men talking about it afterward. The girl Maria may have known, but I didn't.”

Mr. Peters gazed at him sharply.

“Maria? Red shoes and stockings? Uh huh. How does Maria figure in it?”

“It was at her table that I lost the money,” explained Gilbert, rather surprised that the comfortable-looking stranger did not already know this.

He believed he already had mentioned losing the money.

“Of course. Quite so,” said Mr. Peters, pursing his lips and inflating his round cheeks.

“I won a little, lost a little. Then I drank something. I don't know just how it all happened.”

“The sleek young witch!” muttered Mr. Peters. “And some fools say it doesn't pay the house to dress them rich and have them for dealers!”

“Then he got away. Then I took the wrong coach and find myself up here.”

“Uh huh! Now it clears up,” declared Mr. Peters. “But you listen keen; it ain't my place to keep a big game waiting while I stop idiots from jumping into Deer Crick. And I won't stand for it!”

“Lord, sir! I wasn't going to do that,” cried Gilbert. “Not that I don't feel miserable enough; but I've made up my mind I must take my medicine. If it wasn't for that man getting away it would all be as simple as it is hard to do. You see, I was feeling lonely. The girl was dealing cards. I risked some money of my own as an excuse to talk with her. I lost it. Lost all of it. Then I lost part of the other money. I knew I must get it back. I lost all of it.”

“They always do,” sympathetically murmured Mr. Peters.

And for his own benefit: “Well, I’ll be damned"

For he was finding the plot intricate to follow.

“But if I go to Coloma and tell the men what I’ve done, as I’ve intended to do right along, I’ll have to admit I was in the El Dorado when the men got away. It'll be known I was there. I'll be taken back to the city and men will look at me and remember me. Then—”

He could not finish the terrible picture.

“Sounds like a Chinese theater,” mumbled Mr. Peters.

“I was taking the money to men in Coloma. Men from my home state. Vermont.”

“Uh huh. Found the road again.” And the gambler's eyes quickened. “The Coloma men must be hunting for you and wanting their money.”

“Not for some time, perhaps. The home folks got the money together and sent it in care of Wells, Fargo at San Francisco—I was to take it out to Coloma from San Francisco. The Coloma men won't know that I’ve landed. I came around South America.”

“Then just what are you fretting about?”

“But I’ve got to hustle to Coloma and tell them what I’ve done. Then it'll be known I was in the El Dorado when the men got away. Folks in the city already believe I helped them. I didn't have a coin left when the men jumped through the window. The leader lost a small bag of gold, and I picked it up. I’m living out of it now.”

And he groaned in misery.

“Well, I’ll be cussed if you ain't scattered the deck all over the floor!” exclaimed Mr. Peters. “Who do you mean by the men who got away?”

“I don't know. One of them is called ‘Joaquin,’” was the listless reply.

“Beautiful!” gasped Mr. Peters. “No wonder you're afraid of having your neck stretched. You've gambled away other folks' money and must change your name and play dead, or be hung for lending a hand to Murieta. See here, son. I’d 'lowed you was just crazy. Seems to me you've had about as much good luck as a deuce in a euchre deck. My name's Peters. I don't blab. Talk some more if you want to.”

“I must go to Coloma at once and tell everything. I believe my courage will be up to it by to-morrow.”

“Hold up! Don't overplay your hand before the draw!” sternly commanded Mr. Peters. “I heard Joaquin had robbed a faro bank and had escaped, but I’d heard nothing about any one helping him. You're either California’s champion liar or its most unfortunate idiot.”

“I’m not a liar. I’m crazy thinking about it. I came in here hoping I would dare to risk what money I have in trying to get back what I’ve lost. But I couldn't do it.”

“Uh huh,” drawled Mr. Peters, watching him through half-closed eyes.

Gilbert's face worked spasmodically for a moment; then he got a fresh grip on himself and bitterly continued:

“I can't dodge the truth. I'm a thief. Probably will be hung. If I’d only invested the money! That would have been a breach of trust, but it would have shown my good will. There was fourteen hundred dollars. All lost. If I'd only bought a mine!”

“Lord! That's rich Fourteen hundred. Buy a mine. Never mind that now, sonny. You simply lost at a Frisco table instead of in a patch of rocks. The girl asked you to try your luck, I s'pose?”

“I didn't have to play,” muttered Gilbert. “She was running the game. That was her business. I knew that when I bet. Looked like one of the Walker girls back home—the dark one.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“They gave away some kind of wine. It made me feel good for a while. Seemed as if I owned the whole world.”

“The young witch cold-decked you! And many ships at sea are bringing thousands to the bay to learn by the same experience,” sighed Mr. Peters. “Why, sonny, if I wasn't an honest gambler I could make my fortune. Never heard of Joaquin Murieta before landing in Frisco?”

Gilbert shook his head.

“I only heard what men in the street said and what they said on the boat. Back East we don't get much news except that every one is finding gold.”

“Never even heard of Joaquin Murieta back East!” helplessly repeated Mr. Peters; and his fleshy cheeks expanded like toy balloons. “Sonny, you've made me believe the world's a lot bigger than I ever thought it was.”

Then he frowned heavily and drummed his fat fingers on the table.

“Wait a minute,” he growled. “Let’s glance over your cards. You're in for a heap of trouble if you don't lay low for a while. It won't do the Coloma men any good if you get hung. Nevada City is no place for you. By this time men are searching the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys for the young fellow who helped Joaquin to escape. They'll be up here, nosing around.

“In a few months, maybe less, after several new crowds have swarmed up from Frisco, and several old crowds from the mines have swarmed down to Frisco, you'll be all right. The Coloma men can wait. They'll learn you got the money from the express office, and they'll think you got tapped on the head. You've got to drop out of sight for a bit. Now I have a friend who has a camp in the foot-hills. Queer cuss, but all right. I'll see if he'll take you along. I'll have to tell him every thing; but he's to be trusted.

“If he says ‘yes’ you can go with him and get your nerve back, grow some whiskers, hunt for gold and try to make up the money you lost. You're too much of a damn fool to be wicked, and it won't help any one if you're hung. I'll stake you for an outfit if you lack money.”

“I bought an outfit before I gambled. And I have some of the money left that that man—Joaquin—dropped. Thank you just as much.”

“All right. It's a pity you didn't kill that fellow in stead of showing him the window. It would have put several times your losses back in your pocket. Where's your traps?”

“Hotel de Paris. Haven't been there since I left them. Drunken man threatened me with a knife.”

“You’ve had it exciting. Get your belongings and come back here. There's a lodging-house in back. I'll speak to Kelly and have a bunk held for you. Entrance is the door around the corner. If I can find my friend I'll drop in and look you up so you can meet him to-night. There's a big game on I'm afraid I'll have to miss—”

“I’m sorry to bother you—”

“Cut the cards!” growled the gambler. “This country is made up in part of men from the East; and you come from mighty far off. Pennsylvania's my home. And let me tell you this for your own good: Outside of chopping trees, building cabins, using their long rifles, the Pikes are about the numbest lot we have. The Isthmus or Horn trip is s'posed to rub the corners off a man and educate him. Folks from Pike County come straight across the plains and miss that sort of an education. This is the idea: You place all you can raise on one bet, that for pure ignorance of life out here you beat any Pike greenhorn who ever came over the ridge. What you need, son, is to go to school to experience and try to learn something.”

“I’m sure you're right,” humbly agreed Gilbert.

“Then maybe there's a chance for you, son. If my friend won't take you along—and he's got quite a queer collection as it is—we'll have to plan something else. We must pick out something that ain't too public. If ever you do make a big strike and must gamble, come to me. That'll be keeping it among friends.”

Chuckling over this amiable invitation, Mr. Peters rose and swept back the curtains. Instead of looking for his Marysville rivals he went outside with Gilbert and walked much of the way to the Hotel de Paris, then turned off to conduct his search.

The town surpassed Marysville, thirty-five miles down the river, in gaiety and wealth. The narrow ridge between the south and middle forks of the Yuba was one of the richest mining districts in the state, and the town was the center for many thousands of miners. Confidence in quartz-mining was reviving and men were beginning to talk “ledges” instead of “ounce-diggings.”

All California had commenced with the pan in seeking treasure. Progress had been rapid; first to the “rocker” stage, four times cheaper than the pan; then to the “longtom,” four times more efficient than the rocker. The third step had been the permanent sluice, three times cheaper than the tom. Now as a crowning achievement the hydraulic process had been invented in this year of young Gilbert's troubles. By this method the cost of extracting gold was to be reduced from several dollars to a cent or less for each cubic yard.

Quartz mills were still in need of great improvements, but men of vision were now convinced that quartz must constitute the last era of mining. The first experience had been bitter, as rock assaying twenty-five cents a pound yielded, when crushed, only two or three cents, due to inability to save all the gold. And the cost of reduction was from forty to fifty dollars a ton. Ledge men were now boasting the work could be done for from six to fifteen dollars a ton as the outside figure.

Mr. Peters, serene of visage, swiftly threaded his way through the gaping groups of Pike County men, by chattering, gregarious Frenchmen, affably nodded greetings to fresh-shaven men in stove-pipe hats, and all the time sought to find some trace of his friend. He depended more on his ears than his eyes. He would pause a few moments before a drinking place or gambling-hall, then shake his head and pass on without bothering to glance inside.

After covering Main, Broad and Kiota Streets he swung back to Kelly's, thinking his friend might have entered the gambling-hall during his absence. He paused at the door and listened but did not enter. Deciding his quest was useless for the night, he turned the corner and entered the lodging-room to inform Gilbert the search would be resumed in the morning.

The young man had not retired but was surrounded by a dozen miners, each plastered with dried white mud from eyebrows to heels. Mr. Peters frowned and kept back; then regained his usual amiable expression as he observed his new acquaintance was not being taken into custody. And as he listened he smiled wearily.

“Now just one more peek at that, friend,” pleaded one of the men. “What did you say you called it?”

“It's the Norwegian telescope,” patiently explained Gilbert. “You can look through it and study the bottom of rivers and see if any gold is there.”

“My God! If that ain't grand and noble!” exclaimed the miner, turning to the others.

They loudly seconded his praise of the worthless device.

“Feed me through a stamp-mill if he ain't heeled the best for finding gold of any man that ever come to Deer Crick!” loudly cried Phelps, the Grass Valley millionaire. “Cleverer than hell!”

“He’s shrewd. He's keen,” added a third man. “Think of his blowing in here and having such a contraption! Rest of us never had sense enough to dream there was such a thing. What he ought to do is to get a charter and rent that telescope out. Charge so much a ton for every ton of gold raked off the river bottom.”

“You fellers just hold your hosses,” commanded the first speaker. “Now, friend, just show the boys the other inventions.” Then in a loud whisper to the gaping circle:

“This young feller will corner all the gold on the ridge. He's got some of the dadderndest riggings you ever see.”

“He can't beat that telescope. That's the meat for me,” cried Phelps.

He insisted on examining it once more.

Gilbert reached in his blanket-roll and pulled out what looked to be a small kettle.

“Hell! Now what's that?” bawled a red-haired man.

“A dirt-boiling machine,” explained Gilbert.

“By Judas! If that ain't the neatest 'rangement I ever saw!” bellowed a Georgia man, one of the few pioneers who knew anything about gold-mining when the first great rush was composed largely of greenhorns.

In a hushed voice he continued:

“Just think of it, boys! All he has to do when he finds pay dirt is to boil it—and there's only the gold left, pure and solid Lawdy! But I wish I had one of them! Wish I could afford one of them! Any more miracles, partner?”

“Only my gold-magnet,” replied Gilbert, fumbling in his blankets. “The merchant wanted me to buy lots of things, but I picked out what I believed to be the three best.”

“If you can beat that dirt-boiler you must have a hornswoggler!” cried the Georgia man.

“If he can beat that river-telescope then I can fly like an eagle,” declared the red-haired man.

Gilbert held up a small object about two inches square. The circle contracted and loudly marveled and begged permission to examine it. As it passed from hand to hand it was made the recipient of hushed encomiums. Gilbert was requested to explain just how it worked, the Georgia man laboring under the impression it was worn on the brow like a diadem.

He gratified them by placing it over his heart and informing them:

“The man said I was to wear it here, next to my skin. It detects gold. When I walk over a spot containing gold it gives me a mild shock.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated an Ohio man.

A man from Rhode Island passionately vowed he would have one like it if he had to crawl on his hands and knees to Frisco and sell his claim to buy it.

Phelps, of Grass Valley, hoarsely insisted it was too precious to belong to any one man as its ownership would permit the lucky owner to locate all the gold in California before any one else could get a smell. He urged that a company be formed on the spot and the magnet be bought on a royalty basis.

“If we can arrange it that way I’ll sell my ledge for what I can and take the next boat home,” he concluded.

Mr. Peters, whose silent laughter had brought tears to his eyes, now began to wonder how he could rescue a greenhorn who was stamping himself thoroughly on the memory of every man in the circle of fun-makers. By morning Gilbert would be the butt of the town and one of the best known men on Deer Creek.

Pistol shots, followed by loud cries and cheers, and sounding close to the thin rear wall, permitted the gambler to effect a rescue. The circle broke up at the first explosion, some diving under bunks, others rushing toward the door. Then came a hoarse voice shouting something unintelligible.

Mr. Peters exclaimed: “That's him at last!”

The men under the bunks reappeared and the Georgia man shouted:

“It's him, and there's fun going on outside!”

“Old Misery or I'm a liar!” delightedly yelped Phelps. “He’s in the theater next door.”

The men rushed through the exit.

Gilbert saw the gambler for the first time. Before he could speak Mr. Peters was sternly commanding:

“Throw that stuff away. Don't show it again. Don't call attention to yourself again. Come with me. My friend is next door.”

Astounded to hear his San Francisco purchases so brutally condemned, Gilbert replaced them in the blankets and hastened after his new friend, his mind in a whirl. There was a small riot at the entrance of the play-house as a dozen men endeavored to enter without bothering to buy tickets. Mr. Peters knew the man at the door, slipped a coin into his hand and ushered Gilbert inside while the others shifted their attention to the ticket window. Several employees of the theater were being shooed from the stage and down the aisles by a score of mud-spattered men.

In the act of climbing on to the stage was Old Misery, his white hair and beard somewhat tousled. As he gained the stage he sounded a terrific whoop. He had interrupted an act by a troupe of Chinese jugglers and knife throwers. Five men were huddled at the left of the stage. At the other end, standing spread-eagle against a stout wall of planks, was a little dried-up celestial. Several knives were sticking into the planks a foot or more from his emaciated body.

“Kola, wanmayanka yo!”^[1] shouted the mountain man. “I have had a war-dream. Where are the men to sit at the drum? He-hi-hi-hi! Where are the men at the drum?”

The enthusiastic audience now understood his desire, and a man in the front row bawled back:

“We’re here at the drum, old hoss. Let her flicker!”

And he began to stamp his feet and others did likewise. The mountain man began a northern war-dance, exclaiming at short intervals, “How-how-how!” This appealed to the humor of the audience, and they answered in kind. Suddenly the mountain man ceased his stamping and posturing and whirled on the frightened Chinamen and began passing them down from the stage. The little man against the planking remained motionless, his eyes closed.

With the stage cleared behind him the mountain man announced:

“I’ll show you some knife-heaving what is heaving. Toss up your knives, you hellions!”

With howls of delight the spectators responded, led by a Pike County man whose bowie-knife had a home-made wooden handle. It was followed by a similar weapon having the handle ornate with silver, contributed by a Mexican-Chinese man who was hoping to see blood flow. Other knives sailed to the stage, endangering the mountain man. As they fell Old Misery gathered them up, oblivious to those passing close to his head. And as he stooped and secured the knives he repeatedly cautioned the little Chinaman to remain as he was.

The little man was either very brave or too frightened to move; for he maintained his position, his legs straddling far apart, his arms outstretched. Old Misery emitted another whoop and leaped nimbly back till the full width of the stage was between him and the target.

In the wings was a table covered with a dragon decorated cloth.

On this the assortment of knives was dumped, and the mountain man yelled:

“I’ve had a war-dream! I’ve dreamed of four bears and a hawk! I’m more red'n white. I carry a sacred owl pack. I've fought Blackfeet and lived with the Crows and Chippewas. He-hi-hi-hi. Give me more drums! I’ve seen the white-haired raven. I’ve sung the Arrow-Song.”

He added half a dozen boasts in as many Indian tongues; then snapped back his arm. Gilbert winced and cried aloud as a heavy blade spun to the planking and stood deeply embedded within two inches of the target's left side.

A thundering shout rewarded the cast. Then the house became very quiet.

The mountain man cried: “Watch me shave him close!”

The deafening applause was renewed as the mountain man threw the knives so rapidly that it seemed as if there were an endless stream of them glittering across the stage. And a hedge of steel crept up from the right foot and along the leg, and above and below the out stretched arm. When the silver-handled knife sank snugly beside the yellow throat there was a general gasp of delicious doubt.

“A hundred dollars he draws blood!” cried Phelps, of Grass Valley.

“Take you! Make it five hundred" snapped Mr. Peters.

“Five hundred it is!”

The sporting possibilities of the target being wounded or killed appealed to others; and as Old Misery turned back to the table for more knives bets were made fast and furious. But no blood was drawn. With his heart at a standstill Gilbert watched the hedge encircle the uptilted head and creep down the left side.

As he cast the last blade the mountain man leaped high in the air and cracked his moccasins together three times, sounded his war-whoop, and shouted:

“Now you've seen some real knife-heaving.”

He leaped across the stage and began plucking the blades from the planking and tossing them to the foot lights, each striking point downward, until they stood in along row.

“Pick out your own weepins,” he invited.

Then drawing a bag from the bosom of his fringed-buckskin shirt, he placed the little Chinaman's hands together, filled them with gold and leaped from the stage.

“If he can do that when on a spree what couldn't he do when he's sober?” groaned Phelps of Grass Valley as he paid his wager to Mr. Peters.

“We must go,” huskily whispered Gilbert. “I don't want to meet that man.”

“You young fool, he won't hurt you. That's my friend; the old mountain man I quit a big game to find,” growled Mr. Peters.

“No! No! I can’t meet him!” cried Gilbert. “He’s the man with the big bear! He said he would cut my heart out!”

CHAPTER III

OLD MISERY

DESPITE his sense of guilt, and his fear of being tracked, Gilbert could not resist the optimism of the wonderful morning. As he rolled his blankets and shamefacedly threw his telescope and magnet and dirt-boiler to one side Phelps, of Grass Valley, finished his toilet by running his fingers through his hair and whiskers, and cordially greeted:

“Well, how’s our young ‘Ounce-Diggings' this morning?”

“Not quite so much of a fool as last night,” politely answered Gilbert. “Mr. Peters dressed me down for buying that rubbish.”

Phelps grinned and encouraged him:

“You’re improving. Most of us went through it. Last year some of us old miners chipped in forty thousand dollars to build a gold-baker, got up by an eastern cuss. Shares was ten dollars each. It was a furnace and he figured on melting all the rock away and leaving the pure gold. Not much better than your marvelous dirt-boiler. And lots of men older'n you bought a boiler. Now what you going to do?”

“Work.”

“Good. You can work for me on my ledge. Found a rich ledge in Grass Valley three years ago. Till this season it cost more to get the gold out than the gold would fetch. But new methods make it a rich proposition. Other fellows got tired and discouraged and sold their ledges for a song. I've just held on to mine and put in my time hydraulicking and sluicing till some one come along with brains enough to show how a ledge should be worked. Now things are going to boom and I can use an honest young man at tip-top wages.”

“I’ve as good as made a deal with an old man who lives in the mountains. That is, I've said I would go if he would take me. He has a funny name: Old Misery. I'm to meet him this morning. Probably will go with him to-day.”

“All right. He's a bear-hunter. Lived all his life among Injuns. I don't think you'll git rich working with him, but that's your business. If you ever want to try mining just ask for Phelps, of Grass Valley. Four miles southwest of here.”

The Rhode Island man and the Georgia man turned out from their bunks and spoke pleasantly.

The former grinned cavernously and advised:

“Don’t feel cut up over the telescope. Lots of them sold couple of years back. I came out early in 'fifty. I bought a diving-suit.”

“I went in on the rock-melter with Phelps,” chuckled a voice from an upper bunk. “And on the side I paid a lazy Dutchman fat wages for a month to locate gold with a forked stick.”

“I’m prospecting down Coloma way, young man,” spoke up the Georgia man. “They say the diggings down there are played out, but that's 'cause they don't know where to look. You're simple enough to be honest. Want to come along?

Gilbert considered himself a thief, and he knew it would be unsafe to venture near Coloma. He repeated his intentions of going up into the hills if Old Misery would take him. He could see his decision lessened him in their esteem, and, tying his blankets and taking his bag, he hurried from the bunkhouse to find the mountain man.

While looking for Old Misery he found time to satisfy his timber-loving soul and gazed long at the stumps of huge sugar-pines dotting the slope of the ravine. The magnificent trees had been slaughtered, within a brief space of time. In the east, however, ridge after ridge of heavily timbered country climbed high to find the Sierra. In the far background stretched the pale-blue peaks, separating California from the Great Basin.

The streets were humming with life, and the fear of yesterday seized upon him as he mingled with the drifting crowds. There was every chance, he told himself, that he had been traced to Sacramento. If that were a fact then the rough and ready upholders of the law would surely press their quest to Marysville and Nevada City.

“Go back to bed, Senor Stupid, and wake up,” greeted a bird-like voice.

It was Maria of the dreadful escapade. She was seated on a mule and leading a pack-animal. Much red stockings and the edge of a red petticoat showed below the brown skirt, and small red shoes were drumming lightly against the mule's ribs. Her lips were scarlet, and her dark cheeks were flushed. He wondered that she could be so smiling after passing through such a terrible experience.

“Good morning, Miss Maria,” he coldly replied. “You’re going away?”

“Senor Comandante forgives my running away to the ceety. I go to meet my dreadful grandfather,” she lightly replied. “We may meet again. Quien sabe?”

Gilbert did not wish to see her again. But as she knew about his predicament and seemed to be worldly wise he desired to secure some benefit from the chance meeting.

In a low voice he asked: “Do you think there is any danger?”

“Pouf! What does Maria care for danger? It is living without danger that makes the heart grow tired,” she scornfully replied. “Americanos hanged a woman of my people at Downieville, but they never will hang Maria.”

“I hope not,” he muttered. “But they may hang me.”

This appeared to appeal to her sense of the humorous, for she laughed much.

“Madre de Dios!” she exclaimed. “To think the great Joaquin should be helped by a gringo jus’ landed at the bay! I wake in the night and laugh.”

“Hush! Not so loud with names,” he hoarsely cautioned.

Her eyes became two flints and she shrilly asked:

“Who are you to tell Maria how she shall talk?”

“I’m a greenhorn,” he mumbled. “Just a fool; one who heard men say the girl in the El Dorado was Ana Benites, one of—”

“Nombre de Dios! What do you say?” she hissed. Then gravely: “You speak much wisdom, Senor Gilbert. Names should be whispered. The danger for you, senor, showed its claws when you boarded the Sacramento boat. Men were there watching for the young man who opened a window. But on the boat they thought you were one of the people with that cat of a Montez woman. The danger is not over. But keep the heart high, senor. The great man does not forget one who has served him even if that man be a gringo.”

“God forbid I should ever see him again!”

“Is it so?” her low voice fiercely demanded, and she rested her slender brown hands on her hips and stared at him wrathfully. “You push aside the good will of a great man?”

Anger gave place to hero-worship in her small face. More quietly she continued:

“Your people cheated Mexico out of this country. Your Colonel Walker goes to steal Sonora. Your people drive my people from good claims. They keel them if they do not go. But they do not drive Joaquin Murieta!”

The last in a hissing whisper with her head thrust forward and close to his face. Then she was showing her white teeth in a smile and nodding gaily, and prophesying:

“You may meet him again. Quien sabe? He rides far. He rides where he will.”

“No! No!” he mumbled. “I’m sweating blood. Meeting him once has spoiled my life. I can not even work and pay back what I gambled away.”

“Stole,” she corrected with a little sneer. “Why not steal again and pay. Every one steals out here except Senor Comandante. Men fight to get into office in San Francisco so they can steal. My old grandfather wore cloth over his face when his eyes were good. ‘Stealing’ is one name for many ways of taking what you want.”

Then she was laughing again and patting the bosom of her white blouse and confiding:

“The great man is blamed for all the gold the El Dorado lost that night. But I could not go without my pay. I had no time to count. My bad grandfather will say I am a good girl to bring gold to him. I tell you this for we, as you Americanos say, are in the same boat. Is it not? Sí.”

Gilbert stepped back as the Mexican-Chinese man came up. He was the same who had tossed a silver mounted bowie-knife on to the stage the night before. He ignored Gilbert and spoke sharply in Spanish to the girl. She eyed him resentfully, yet appeared to be afraid of him, and made a short answer. He spoke again, only a few words; and she kicked her small heels against the mule and rode up the ridge path toward the foot-hills.

Turning to Gilbert and speaking in excellent English, the fellow remarked:

“It is good to have the rains over.”

The speech was insignificant, but his gaze was persistent and curious.

Gilbert disliked him exceedingly and replying briefly, moved on to be rid of him. A short distance up the street he halted before a window containing a display of Chinese shawls and wondered if one of the Walker girls back home would care for one. Several Vermont men had returned home from California the season before and each had brought one or more of these shawls. Then came again the realization that he was done with Vermont once the Coloma men wrote home how he had been false to his trust, or had been killed after visiting the express office.

A Chinese girl, looking less than fourteen years of age and carrying an infant in a silk scarf on her back, quickly appeared in the doorway.

Pointing a tawny finger at the window, she said in a falsetto little voice: “Velly good.”

She was the first woman of her race Gilbert had seen at close range. She reminded him of a quaint doll. And yet there was ancient cunning in her small face and a curious suggestion of strength in the tawny fingers. He stared at her and then at the infant. On the head of the child was a black cap, gaily embroidered.

“Your child?” he found himself asking.

She laughed and nodded and again pointed at the shawls and repeated:

“Velly good.”

The Mexican-Chinese man suddenly stood beside Gilbert and spoke in a strange singsong to the little creature. She bowed low and hastily withdrew inside the shop.

“My wife,” explained the man with a shrug of his shoulders. “Sent over for Old Sam, who runs a wash house. He wouldn't take her. Too young. So I bought her from him. If you're interested in the shawls I'll make the price almost nothing.”

“Thank you. I'm not buying anything to-day,” Gilbert told him. . “You’re going away? I think that is wise. Of course the time to buy shawls is when you are going back home. I salute you, senor.”

He entered the shop and Gilbert went on, puzzled by the man's bearing and speech.

Near the Hotel de Paris he met Old Misery.

The Mountain man would have passed without noticing him had not Gilbert accosted him, explaining:

“I am the man Mr. Peters spoke to you about in the theater last night.

Old Misery ran a brown hand through his yellow white beard and stared quizzically at the Vermonter and slowly replied:

“When I'm having a war-dream things looks brighter'n they do after I've slept it off. Mebbe you'll fit in with me, but I’m gambling Peters is betting t'other way. More I look at you the more you make me think of some one I wanted to climb while I was haunching up on my hind legs and making the eagle scream.”

“You threatened to stick a long knife into me, sir, for being afraid of a big bear. The bear came toward me when I got out of the stage. I pulled my Allen revolver.”

“We— Cuss me if it ain't so! You acted up like a Pike County man. If you'd pulled a real gun on Bill Williams I wouldn't 'a' been so fussed. But one of them pepper-boxes! It hurt Bill's finer feelings just like it did mine. Anyway, you’ve got guts 'nough to be honest. Never like a dodger. We'll trail down to the old stable where I leave Bill, and the three of us will have a pow wow. I've got quite a lot of animals up in the hills. Some of the queerest have only two legs. And I'll lift ha’r to please Peters. But it's sort of straining friend ship to shove a greenhorn on me who carries a pepper-box.”

“That’s what I told Mr. Peters, Mr. Misery. It was his idea. He meant well by me, and has been mighty kind. But I can see I’d only be in your way, Mr. Misery.”

“Good land! Stop that ‘mistering’ me! If the boys heard you they'd nag the life out of me. Old Misery. I was called that when I worked for the Hudson's Bay Company at Yerba Buena in 'forty-six, and when I worked for Jacob Leese afore he sold out to the Hudson's Bay. Always Old Misery. Back in the days when big ships was sailing where the busy part of Frisco now is. S'long as you can look every man in the face and tell him to go to hell you don't have to go a-mistering anybody.”

“I can't look men in the face,” was the low and bitter reply. “I’ve done things I shouldn't have done.”

Old Misery stared at him blankly, then shrewdly; and confessed:

“Younker, so have I. But I never l'arned that being meeching ever helped undo anything. I was rampageously drunk last night. Oughter be ashamed of myself, seeing as how I had Bill Williams along. Howsomever, we'll save the talk till we can have Bill in at the pow-wow.”

Gilbert was convinced he could not overcome the mountain man's prejudices; nor did he believe any discussion would favorably influence the whimsical character.

“I can get a job in the mines, although there are reasons why I should not just now.”

“Along of doing things you didn't oughter,” mused Old Misery. “If Peters said that he hit plumb center. And now let me tell you something about mining, where you work for yourself. A placer-miner that earns six hundred dollars a year is lucky. You hear of them that make a rich strike; but you don't know nothing about the thousands and thousands who don't make grub and liquor. Even as keen a man as ‘Weymouth Mass’—friend of mine—ain't managed yet to hit the mark. And he come out in the first rush from the East. But I will say he's now got a big medicine working for him and oughter hit the bull's-eye. But the man who works steady for wages, here or at the bay, has the miner who ain't got any medicine beat all to pieces.

“If Peters didn't say you had good reasons for not doing a honest day's work—See here, younker: Bill Williams won't like that sort of talk a damn bit. He'd rare up on his hind legs and snort even if it was said in the sign language. Howsomever, Bill ain't no Gospel slinger. He's broad-minded, and he banks a heap on what Peters says. We'll put the whole business before him. But it's got to be a straight talk. Nothing held back.”

“Mr. Peters said I was to tell you everything.”

“His head is full of sense. We'll spread all the cards out before Bill. It's him that has the say-so. I'll chip in when it can help, being weak and mortal. But it's for Bill—who never done wrong—to decide.”

Gilbert followed him, believing him to be crazy. But better the company of the mentally unbalanced than to be left alone with his fear that some man from the bay might tap him on the shoulder and tell him he was wanted. He was beginning to realize that Joaquin Murieta was no common evil-doer, and that public sentiment would be quick to bestow a noose on a man who helped him to escape. It was the height of the tragically ridiculous that a Vermont greenhorn, just arrived on the coast of gold, should be the one selected by fate to show the arch-outlaw the hidden window and to flee in his company as far as the street.

When they came to the stable, a dilapidated log and slab structure no longer used for horses, the mountain man directed:!

“Wait out here. Bill 'n' me will be with you in the flap of a beaver's tail. Better to pow-wow in the open than inside walls.”

He vanished through the dark doorway, and Gilbert sat down and became interested in an eighteen months’ old grizzly bear, weighing some five hundred pounds. The bear was hitched to a broken wagon by a long chain, and, being well-fed, was thoroughly good-natured and beautiful of coat. A man passing by the front of the building paused to fondle him roughly. After the man went on the bear advanced to make friends with Gilbert. Reassured by what he had seen, Gilbert scratched the bear behind the ears and petted him.

For some minutes the two were excellent companions; then a pig squealed back of a pen adjoining the stable. The bear quickly padded back to the wagon and crawled beneath it. The pig wriggled through an opening and stood gazing foolishly about, unable to decide just what use he should make of his new freedom. Like a cat watching a mouse the bear watched the pig. The pig grunted and advanced toward the bear's unfinished breakfast. The captive's legs began to twitch, and the muscles worked rapidly beneath the silky coat. Then the bear made a rush. The pig squealed demoniacally and barely scrambled out of reach of the swift, hooked paw.

“If the derned young fool had waited two seconds more he'd had him,” cried Old Misery from the stable door. “Some of you shoo that pig away before Bill comes out. Bill's a gentleman, but he forgets that fact when he smells pork.”

The pig was chased to the back of the stable; then Old Misery came forward, closely followed by the same immense bulk that had terrified Gilbert the day before. The grizzly's tail was shorter than his ears. His coat was brownish-yellow with white tips, and he was fat. The small eyes searched for a glimpse of the squealing pig, but he did not offer to leave his master. When the mountain man halted Gilbert drew his heels under him, ready to leap and run. The bear dropped on the warm earth, curled up and went to sleep.

Old Misery seated himself cross-legged and began:

“I see that young fool bear cottoning to you, younker. You had a trick with his ears that pleased him mightily. He's one of the cubs I sold last season. Sold another just before going to the bay; a female, older and full as big. She's to be took to Frisco. There must be a dozen bears down to the bay that I trapped. Gentleman behind me is Bill Williams. Named after an old partner of mine, who knew more about the Rocky Mountains than any one else 'cepting Jim Bridger 'n' me.

“Gineral Frémont says Williams lost his bearin's and come nigh busting up his outfit. But old mountain men will tell you that if the gineral had follered Bill's medicine he'd never tried to cross the mountains at the head of the Arkansas in winter, and he wouldn’t lost three men and his papers. We called him old Bill Williams when Kit Carson, Uncle Dick Wooten and L. B. Max well was l'arning the mountain passes. Bill always believed he'd change into a buck elk, but said he would stick close to one of the Colorado parks.

“I ain't shot a buck elk in that neighborhood since he was wiped out by Injuns. So you can see I’ve give my four-footed pard a good name; and he's living up to it. Now that we're squatting we'll smoke and pow-wow.” And he proceeded to fill his pipe and light it. “Bill's got his ears open even if he does play off at being asleep.”

Gilbert doubted this last statement as he stared at the furry ball, nearly as high as when the animal was standing.

“He’s tame,” muttered Gilbert.

Old Misery lowered his pipe and snorted.

“If you was among the Crows you'd be their head medicine-man. Tame? He's civilized. He's a gentleman.”

“Of course,” hurriedly agreed Gilbert. “How did you happen to meet him?”

“After silk hats knocked the stuffing out of beaver prices and fetched the price down from ten dollers a pound to twenty-five cents apiece, I just wandered up and down the country. One day in Frisco, 'forty-nine, I went in and saw Rowe's circus. That give me the notion of trapping animals for the towns. Bill was one of the first I trapped. He was young and playful and raked me from neck to crotch. He soon l'arned I couldn't stand as much fun as when I was younger, and now he's as well behaved as any Gospel-slinger you ever see. I've been offered eighteen hundred for him. Circus back East wanted him bad.”

“And you refused!”

“Good lord! Would you sell your best friend for a bag of dust?” roared Old Misery, his frosty eyes glittering.

“The question was foolish. Of course you refused; for there's Bill. I was thinking you had the offer right after Bill was caught. Of course you wouldn't sell him after you got attached to him.”

Only partly mollified, Old Misery growled:

“Yes, there's Bill. And he's gitting onpatient to hear you talk. You don't have to make a yip. But if you do talk, just remember you're speaking on pipes, and get started. Time's most up, ain't it, Bill?”

One small eye opened sleepily.

The mountain man's stern gaze promised no reward for a confession, but believing he could trust him and anxious to have it over with, Gilbert plunged into a narrative of his trials since leaving home. He remarked that he had been ill for much of the long voyage down the east Atlantic coast and for much of the time up the west coast of South America. He copied from Mr. Peters in reminding that he had landed in San Francisco more of a greenhorn than otherwise might have been expected. He shielded himself none, and when he had finished his face was red, and he found it hard to meet the boring gaze of the mountain man.

“So you're a Yankee, huh?” mumbled Old Misery. “That's 'gainst you to my way of thinking. To Bill's way of thinking, too. We never had no bad weather out here till the Yankees begin coming in. Never was such goings-on in weather as the rains of last winter and the winter before. My camp's high in the hills, but Bill 'n' me don't want to risk being washed out or snowed under along of having a Yankee with us. That your idee, Bill?”

The big bear stretched out his legs and wriggled his mass of flesh and then curled up again. Gilbert's eyes opened wide in amazement. Instead of being condemned for gambling away money that did not belong to him, and for helping the bandit king to escape, he was being mocked by this strange, old man for being an easterner. Later he would learn that many native Californians and mountain men entertained the quaint belief that the climate changed for the worse once far-eastern men flocked in.

Before he could think of any defense to offer Old Misery was resuming:

“Bill says that there ain't a grizzly in the Sierra foot-hills, or around Shingletown, or McCumber's Flats above Fort Reading, or at Lassen's Butte, that doesn't know it's the Yankees that sent our old-time weather to hell.”

“Well, that seems to finish it,” muttered Gilbert.

“Don’t be so cussed brash. I ain't passed the pipe yet. On t'other hand, Bill says, the weather'll be about as bad at camp if you stay down here hiding from a rope with a noose in it. He says the mischief's done already, and a few more Yanks can't make it any worser. Do I 'terpret you right, Bill?”

Mr. Williams laboriously rolled on his back and squirmed convulsively; then toppled over on his fat side and continued his nap.

Old Misery watched him admiringly and added:

“That's his way of thinking, he says. He won't change it if hell freezes over.”

“I’m a thief,” bitterly reminded Gilbert. “I’m wanted for helping a lawbreaker to escape. I expected those would be the things you—and Bill—would think about.”

“Man’s a thief who steals things for hisself when he don't need 'em,” mused Old Misery. “A man who takes something for gambling outfit to put in its pouch is just a cussed fool.”

“If they had an electric telegraph between San Francisco and Sacramento they would have had me by the time the stage reached the south side of this creek.

Old Misery snorted in disgust.

“Tel’graph outfit! Send a talk over a hank of wire! When they can do that Bill Williams will be wearing feathers. Don't talk foolishness. Minnetarees would say you was mahopa. Out of your head.”

While he was indulging in this bit of skepticism the young bear bounced from the wagon and jumped on Bill Williams. The cyclonic whirl of furry forms violently hurled the mountain man and Gilbert to one side.

Old Misery, on his hands and knees, informed Gilbert:

“Bill always likes to play a bit. T'other Bill I named him after was that way. Full of fun, 'specially when in liquor.”

And with keen enjoyment he watched the unequally matched antagonists wrestle and cuff each other. Gilbert had the wind knocked from his lungs and was incapable of speech for some minutes. The bears were good-natured, however, and it was obvious that Bill was not exerting himself.

Old Misery crawled to his feet and gleefully exclaimed: “See the old cuss let on he’s plumb licked!”

This as Bill fell on his neck and gave an excellent portrayal of the conquered.

“Well, now we’ve settled all that, we'll be hoofing it up to the hills,” continued the mountain man. “I’ll fetch “Solid Comfort’ and we’ll start.”

“But there's the money I lost and the man I helped—”

“Listen, younker,” harshly cut in Old Misery. “Neither Bill Williams nor me has lost any gold dust, nor Murietas. Keep shet. See how big Bill has grow’d. That's along of not talking all the time. Owls live many years for the same reason.”

With the springy step of youth he made for the stable, leaving Gilbert to wonder what particular sort of a pet he would bring back. When he reappeared he was carrying a rifle.

“Where's Solid Comfort?” asked Gilbert.

Misery patted the rifle, and countered:

“You don't carry no weepins. That's good.”

“I still have my Allen's revolver in my blanket roll—”

“I was speaking of deadly weepins. After we git to camp I'll show you how to whittle so's I can trust you with a knife.”

“Then I'm to go with you?”

“This is a free country, 'cept for Mexicans and Chinese. They was sorter overlooked when freedom was parceled out on this side of the Sierras.”

He started off up the ridge road, his rifle over his arm, his head swinging from side to side as it would in the Indian country. The big bear plodded along at his heels, his head swinging from side to side. A rod behind came Gilbert, his blanket over his shoulder, his carpet-bag in hand, fearfully expecting some violent interruption to his going and not yet quite sure how far the strange old man would endure his company.

They left the town behind and had followed the creek as far as Willow Valley when the pounding of hoofs caused the mountain man to glance back and come to a halt.

A man was riding rapidly after them, and as he drew nearer Old Misery spat in disgust and exclaimed:

“Ching-a-ling. Breed of the worst kind. Calls himself ‘Manuel Vesequio.' But to us old-timers he's Ching-a-ling, half-Mexican, t'other half Chinese. Some say he's a spy for Murieta. Likely 'nough. He's in a hustle, but he don't 'pear to be chased.”

The breed reined in his horse some distance from the two men and covered the remaining distance on foot. He seemed to be in haste, and his yellowish-brown face reflected some suggestion of fear, as he glanced behind him. He told Old Misery:

“There is much running back and forth of men in the town. They will come this way.”

“Ching-a-ling, tell what's on your mind. Just why did you ride after us?” demanded the mountain man as he eyed the fellow with much disfavor.

“How should Manuel Vesequio know what men mean when they talk loud and run to get horses and point this way, Senor Misery?” was the sullen answer. “Perhaps they race their horses. Perhaps they ride after a man. Perhaps they ride after a young man. Quien sabe? Excuse, Senor Don Misery. The horse smells the bear very strong. I do not like to walk back to town. Adios.”

And before he could be questioned further he turned, ran back to his nervous mount, flung himself into the saddle, and galloped at breakneck speed down the creek.

“They’re after me!” gasped Gilbert. “You go ahead. I'll take to the timber. They’ll blame you if they find me with you.”

“You’re 'fraid Bill 'n' me will git hurt, huh? Solid Comfort will have a word to say afore that happens. But it's neighborly of you to have it in mind. We'll trail along and think about dodging trouble when Trouble shows hisself. Bill's already thinking 'bout it. Ching-a-ling's a spy for Joaquin, all right. Some one fetched him word to give you a warning.”

“I don’t want to be beholden to that man,” muttered Gilbert as they quickened their pace.

“I never stop to think who's hauling on the rope that pulls me out of a hole,” replied Old Misery. “They can't come up so quick that you won't have time to tree yourself. No use fretting.”

As the day wore on and there were no signs of pursuit the mountain man decided the breed had brought a false alarm, or else the posse had taken the wrong direction. They halted late in the afternoon at a deserted cabin in a deep ravine in the heart of big timber.

Above on the lofty, rocky wall immense sugar pines reared their magnificent tops, and on a dead limb of one of these perched a bald eagle, king of the feathered folk. He was staring into the sunset and perhaps down on the emerald floor of the Sacramento Valley, his favorite fishing-grounds. Old Misery pointed him out, but Gilbert was not sure he saw him. More intimate were the blue-jays. These at once discovered the campers and ventured close to obtain food.

“I like the little cusses,” murmured the old mountain man as several of the pretty creatures lighted within a few feet of him and picked up crumbs of bread he scattered about.

His benign expression changed to a frown as the discordant croak of a raven sounded near by.

“Bill 'n' me call that feller ‘Death.’” he muttered, glancing toward the dark woods uneasily. “Never eats anything. You'll find him out where even a horned toad can't pick up a living. Have a chaw, Bill.”

He tossed a piece of tobacco to his pet, who eagerly caught it in his mouth.

“That's what I like 'bout a bear. He's so damned human. Likes terbacker. Hi! There’s another cuss that's 'most human. Bill calls 'em ‘mountain men.’ Hear him?”

Gilbert picked out the harsh, disagreeable voice of a crow; only it was different from the eastern crow.

Old Misery reached the height of praise when he solemnly declared:

“That feller can go anywhere a mountain man can. He don't feel t' home below the four-thousand-foot level. When crossing the Cascades at seven thousand feet up I’ve seen 'em three thousand feet overhead, taking it as easy as a buck with three squaws. And, dern him! He's just like a jay. Wants to know everybody's business. Cunning's a jay, too. But he flies like a woodpecker, and is just as shy. He'll out-Injun any other bird in guard ing against trouble. Always lights on a dead tree where he can look round afore gunning for grub in a live tree. Never forgets as lots of men do. Never gits careless.”

Old Misery had brought bread and cooked meat, and they soon finished their supper. Gilbert felt he was out of the world as they lounged by the fire in the open. The mountain man lighted his pipe and leaned against the sleeping bear and told amazing stories of his colorful life.

As if it were a mere incident, he spoke of going as guide with General Ashley to the Upper Missouri in 1823, and in this connection he explained he had been with Pilcher at the mouth of the Bighorn in 1821. He briefly described his crossing to California with Jedediah Smith in 1826, and declared he was one of the survivors of the Mohave massacre on the Colorado when ten of the party were killed. In a sketchy manner, as though talking to entertain himself rather than to enlighten his companion, he reviewed the return trip with Smith in 1827, crossing the Sierra in the vicinity of the Stanislaus River.

Invariably he said:

“Me 'n' Jed Smith,” thereby giving Gilbert the impression he, not Smith, was in command of the expedition. Almost all of the old-time names dropping from his bearded lips were new to the Vermonter; just as some geographical points well known in the East were meaningless to Misery, who knew them only by colloquial, or their Indian, names.

After concluding the 'twenty-seven narrative he abruptly asked:

“What winter you born in, younker?”

“In the summer of 'thirty-one.”

“Winter-count of 'thirty-one, huh? Makes you twenty-two now. And poor Jed Smith was only thirty-three when he was killed at the Cimarron. That bird we call 'Clarke's crow,' that's like a jay and a woodpecker, wouldn't 'a' got trapped as poor Jed did. He was only twenty-eight when I took him overland. Why, he was only two years older'n you when he went with me 'n' Gineral Ashley to the Upper Missouri—but he l’arned fast.”

“You’ve been out here quite a while,” observed Gilbert.

“Uh-huh. Quite a while,” muttered the mountain man. “Come here from the East, but it's so long ago seems if I always was out here.” Then with a flash of heat: “Some folks in Frisco got together an outfit they call 'The Californy Pioneers.' Before you can belong you have to be able to brag 'bout coming out here in 'forty-nine—four years ago! I didn't sabe the rules of the game and 'lowed to take on with 'em. And, damn me, if they didn't say I was lying when I said I was here in 'twenty-six. Bill's dead right. It's time to snooze.”

He preferred the open, lying against the bear. Gilbert succumbed to the house habit and spread his blanket inside the cabin. He was awakened in the morning by large gray squirrels scampering over the roof. He heard the crack of a rifle some distance from the camp and remembered Ching-a-ling's warning. In his haste to dress he lost time. As he was rolling his blankets he heard the rifle for the second time. When he burst through the doorway it was to behold Old Misery coming from the growth with a brace of quail. Bill Williams swung along at his heels.

Gilbert threw his blankets back into the cabin, hoping the mountain man had not detected his panic. A dusky grouse, the handsomest of its kind, flew up a few feet in front of the mountain man.

Old Misery called out:

“See that cock, younker? He's lit in a tree nigh here. S'pose you take Solid Comfort and pot him to go along with our breakfast. I’ll be dressing the quail.”

Gilbert was eager to make himself useful. In Vermont he had been considered a good bird-shot.

“He won't quit the tree when you fire at him,” said the mountain man. “Just reload and shoot again.”

He passed over his bullet-pouch and powder-horn.

“If he doesn't drop once I sight him it'll be because he's nailed to the limb,” assured Gilbert.

Old Misery grinned and winked at Bill Williams.

Gilbert ran to the woods at the point where the grouse had entered. Almost at once he heard a dull booming note and knew the bird was directly ahead. With rifle ready and moving stealthily he crept forward. After a half dozen steps the cry sounded on his left, and he shifted his course. But he had proceeded only a short distance when the call was repeated behind him. He turned back and reached an opening where he could see Old Misery. The mountain man was apparently waiting for him to shoot the bird. Gilbert held up three fingers to signify he almost located that many birds.

“Git 'em all,” encouraged Old Misery. “Remember, they won't quit their perch. Take your time in reloading.”

Gilbert waved his hand and advanced deeper into the timber. Now the booming call was close on his right, and he wheeled and cocked the rifle. Almost immediately it was answered from the left. As he faced in that direction it began reverberating deep in the woods. The plentitude of chances and the swift exchange of calls tended to confuse him. He turned about, then reversed his position; then decided to advance some distance into the growth. But the call ahead now sounded afar off. And he halted and waited for a grouse to sound a cry closer at hand. While he was thus maneuvering and hesitating and getting nowhere Old Misery strolled to the edge of the timber and asked:

“What seems to be bothering you?”

“There's half a dozen of them in here,” answered Gilbert.

“Fetch Solid Comfort here.”

Gilbert went to him and surrendered the gun.

“Now look up that trunk thirty feet. See where the first branch j'ins?”

Gilbert tilted back his head and gazed sharply. He made out the indistinct figure of a bird perched on the limb and close to the trunk.

“It’s one of them,” he whispered. “Give me the gun.”

“It’s all of 'em,” Old Misery informed him, still retaining the rifle. “Hear him? He's trying to dog you away.”

There came dull rumbling far off to the right. “This time of year he'll play that trick to keep you away from his mate. Sorter throws his voice all around to fool you. Bill Williams would be 'shamed of me if I shot him. Know any Yankee birds that can play that trick?”

Somewhat crestfallen, Gilbert walked back to the fire. The air was soothing with the aroma of the pines and spicy with the spruce scents. If he could but forget the betrayed trust he knew he would feel wonderfully exhilarated. As he took his dipper of coffee and one of the quails on a huge slice of bakery bread he decided he never before had been so hungry. He glanced at his watch, changed to coast time.

It was six o'clock; and he idly remarked: “Folks back home have been up four hours.”

“Good land! I’ve heard 'bout Yanks being early risers, but gitting up at two in the morning!” exclaimed Old Misery.

“At this time of year they get up at five. An hour later in winter.”

“Then what medicine have you got that tells you they got up this 'ticular morning at two?” sharply demanded the mountain man.

“But they didn't. Their time is three hours earlier than ours. That’s what I meant.”

Old Misery tossed the framework of a quail to Bill Williams and stared at the young man thoughtfully.

Finally he asked: “You mean there's anything back East that's quicker'n we be out here?”

Gilbert was puzzled at first; then believed he understood and explained:

“I was speaking of the difference in time. Of course when it's six o'clock here it's a bit over three hours later there; or a trifle past nine.”

“Well I’ll be cussed!” gasped the mountain man. “Bill Williams, you hear that? Look here, younker, Bill 'n' me took you along, thinking you was simple, not bad. We reckoned you'd made a fool of yourself like lots of young fellers do when they git away from home. But the one thing I won't stand for is a liar. 'Cording to your tell something can happen back East at nine o'clock, and—if our medicine was strong enough for us to know it the minute it happened—we could know 'bout it here at six o'clock or three hours afore it happened.”

Gilbert endeavored to explain how London saw the sun ahead of New England, and how Vermont saw the sun ahead of California. As he listened Old Misery's anger vanished, and he gazed pityingly on the young man.

After the explanation was finished the mountain man patiently asked:

“Then if a man was shot in London at one o'clock this afternoon we'd hear that gun crack—if our ears were medicine 'nough—bout five o'clock this morning, or nigh on to eight hours afore it happened?”

Gilbert floundered about helplessly in a last endeavor to make it clear.

Old Misery sadly shook his head and confided to Bill Williams

“You’re right, Bill. We've got to give him a try. But he's mahopa. He don't show color.”

Some one shouting down the ravine brought the two to their feet.

Gilbert cried: “By heavens, they've caught me!”

A figure could be glimpsed in the timber at the west end of the ravine.

“Into the woods behind the cabin! Stay there till I give you a call,” ordered Old Misery.

And with his rifle over his arm he walked down the ravine, the bear lazily following him. Several men were now to be seen in the timber; and one rode clear, but reined in as his horse threatened to bolt. Old Misery halted.

The newcomer was Phelps of Grass Valley.

“Git that damned bear to one side so I can come up!” he called out.

“B'ars owned this country 'fore you ever was borned. My b'ar knows more'n you. And I don't like your talk. What you want up here?”

Phelps, now on the ground and holding his horse, apologized:

“I take it all back, Misery. I'm like my fool horse. I don't know much of nothing.”

“We won't fight over that. But what you want?”

“How's diggings?” replied Phelps, and grinning broadly.

Other figures were now emerging from the open woods. Several pack-animals were in the procession, and had picks and shovels strapped on their loads.

Old Misery relaxed his watchful attitude and muttered:

“Miners, Bill. They wouldn't pack shovels along if they was chasing the young fool— Killed in the afternoon in London and known here afore it happened! Young cuss is heyoka^[1]— All right, Phelps. Just stick where you be till I put Bill Williams in the shack.”

The men halted and waited for him to lead the bear to the cabin and close the ruin of a door on him.

To Gilbert in hiding the mountain man called out: “Show yourself, “Difference in Time.” Everything's all hunky.”

Gilbert emerged from behind the cabin. Old Misery called out for the men to leave their pack-animals behind and advance. The miners swarmed up the trail.

The Georgia man was in the party and waving his hand, he yelled:

“We’ve caught you at it, Misery. Let it be same as usual; double-claim for you. Your discovery right. Choice of third claim for your young friend. We'll hold a meeting to-night and decide on the size of the claims. Now if you'll lead the way we'll proceed to locate.”

Old Misery stroked his heard and grinned broadly and asked of the cabin:

“Hear that talk, Bill? Of course you’re laffing.”

Then to the prospectors:

“What give you boys the notion I’d struck pay dirt up here? You know I never fuss with gold till some one else has dug and cleaned it.”

“Can't catch birds with that seed,” good-naturedly replied Phelps.

And his companions laughed heartily, and several men ran back to remove picks and shovels from the packs.

“Can't fool us, Misery. You gave the game away when you was drunk and throwing knives at the Chinaman. Mebbe you don't remember giving him a double handful of gold. We looked it over. Never come from Deer Crick or the Yuba. It was sharp-edged 'stead of being smooth and worn like river gold.”

“I see,” mused Old Misery. “Smartest of us git caught sometimes, don't we? Well, boys, if you'll strike down through the timber to the first bench above the little crick you'll find color all right. I ain't saying how rich you'll find it. As for staking a claim you oughter know I never shovel dirt and rocks and paw round in mud. When I find free gold I take 'nough for whisky and terbacker, just as I shoot 'nough meat to eat and no more. If I want a claim for this young feller I'll find him one out of what you folks leave.”

“But your gold wa’n’t river gold.”

“Mebbe I dug it out of cracks in a rich ledge. There's a ledge on this side of that bench. You know I ain't no miner. I sell meat, birds and animals to miners and towns. My pay is in gold. I have all kinds give me. You're marking the wrong tree, boys, but pitch in and tear up the ground.”

Phelps eyed him cunningly and suggested:

“Perhaps we'd better stick close to you, Misery.”

“Now you're talking on a pipe,” eagerly agreed the mountain man. “Keep along with me and I’ll sell you deer meat at seventy-five cents a pound after your grub runs out. And I’ll lead you over some new country. Snake River country by the way of the Humboldts.”

The Georgia man conferred with Phelps in whispers. More men came straggling from the timber.

With a chuckle Old Misery exclaimed:

“See 'em pile in! Reg’lar rush. You fellers better look smart or they'll stake out the whole bench.”

This arrival of more prospectors caused a panic among the first on the scene. One of the newcomers, armed with pick and shovel, broke from his companion and raced down the slope and into the growth to where he knew he would find running water. The others quickly chased after him. Phelps' party witnessed this stampede with much alarm, and the group began disintegrating. Phelps and the Georgia man succumbed and made frantic haste to reach the bench.

Old Misery hastily packed up his belongings and released the bear and tossed out Gilbert's blanket-roll and carpet-bag and warned the young man:

“Stir your hoofs fast, younker. Those idiots will be chasing us 'way to camp if we don't lose 'em.”

He took to the evergreens on the south side of the ravine, and Gilbert endeavored to keep at his heels. But the mountain man's legs seemed to be all springs, and he glided up the slope and over the slippery brown carpet of pine needles with a rapidity the easterner could not equal. Near the top of the ridge and after they had passed a narrow pack-horse trail the mountain man finally halted and waited for Gilbert to come up.

With the sweat streaming down his face Gilbert approached to within a rod of his companion when he was halted by the sudden appearance of a rifle barrel protruding from the bushes back of Old Misery and by a hoarse voice commanding:

“Drop that gun and stick up your hands, old man. Keep that damned bear quiet if you want to live.

Without displaying any agitation and without moving his head, Old Misery obeyed.

The unseen next commanded: “You, young feller, come close, and up with your paws.”

Gilbert nervously did as told.

“Ain’t you ‘Reelfoot' Williams?” asked Old Misery without raising his voice.

“None of your damn business! I want what's left of that gold you was making so free with in Nevada City two nights ago.”

“Welcome to anything I’ve got 'cept my pipe and gun. Thought I knew the voice. 'Cording to my young friend here if this was happening in London over the ocean the folks in Frisco—if their hearing was keen 'nough—would know 'bout it more'n seven hours afore it happened.”

“Shut up!” growled Reelfoot Williams, a pest of the northern trails but a minor offender compared with Joaquin Murieta.

He stepped from the bushes, his masked face watching Gilbert as he stood behind the mountain man. The latter spoke sharply to the bear, and Bill Williams lay down.

“There's a hundred or more miners down the slope, Reelfoot,” lazily warned Old Misery. “If they sight you this mountain air will be filled with lead. And I don’t want the b'ar hurt. You'd better straddle your hoss and ride away.”

“I’ll risk stopping long enough to go through your clothes. Young feller, you face down the ridge. Old man, if you make a move my knife will stop it.”

“Go ahead, but work sharp. My arms is gitting tired. In the inside pocket of my shirt.”

Leaning his rifle against a tree and holding his knife in his right hand, the point against his victim's back, the bandit slipped his left arm around the old man's waist and thrust his hand into the pocket of the hunting-shirt.

“Lord! Not very hefty,” he growled as he fished out a small bag.

“Got rid of most of it. But better take a peek at what's on top.”

Suspecting some ruse, yet curious, the bandit loosened the string and opened the bag. After a quick glance the bandit muttered an oath and dropped the bag on the ground.

“So that's it, eh?” he growled. “Never dreamed of it. No, thank you. Not any more for me. I’ve had enough. That's one game I won't buck. Stand just as you are for a bit.”

And he picked up his rifle and backed through the bushes.

Then came the sound of hoofs, and Old Misery sighed in relief and dropped his arms and said:

“All right, younker. Take it easy. He's vamosed.”

“He robbed you!” gasped Gilbert as he faced about.

“No. Just took a peek at my medicine and remembered he had business over the ridge. Riding like hell by this time.”

He picked up the bag and drew from it a monte card and stared at it thoughtfully.

“First time I ever let any one else see it,” he mused. “You might as well look.”

Across the face of the card was scrawled:

Joaquin–Amigo

“The man—”

“Same cuss,” sighed Old Misery, as he took the card and tore it into bits. “Pulled him out the San Joaquin River with a rope in high water. Looked like a rat when he got ashore. Not till he caught his hoss and rode off did he tell me he was Murieta. After you've saved a man's worthless life it's hard to turn round and kill him. But Bill 'n' me talked it over afterward and decided that’s how it would have to be if we met up with him again. Tried to git him in Frisco, but Scar-Faced Luis dropped back and held me up. I saved his life. You helped him to bust loose from the El Dorado. Funny. Both helped him out of a bad fix.”

“But the card?”

“Few days after I roped him out the river a man came to me and give me the card and rode off. I’ll spoil his hide the next chance I git.” Then with a chuckle: “Only Bill 'n' me ain't sure 'bout seeing him first. That dif’rence in time might work against me. I might try to shoot him in the afternoon, with him knowing 'bout it several hours aforehand; then he'd git his lead home first. Mebbe you saw him afore you really saw him, and helped him from the El Dorado afore he went into that place.

CHAPTER IV

THE HIDDEN VALLEY

THEY had climbed high above the valley of the Sacramento and its joyous freshness, but nowhere could there be a richer green than here among the endless growths interspersed with heavily grassed hollows. Bird life was abundant. The jays, with harsh and challenging cries, were feeding on seeds from the big pine cones. Close by, only more sedately, the mountain-chickadee and the demure titmouse hunted for food. The deep blue overhead would remain unspotted by clouds for months.

Gilbert's feeling of aloofness from the world was accumulative; and now as he approached the entrance of a hidden valley without suspecting its existence he lost perspective, and San Francisco was as far away as was Vermont. There was an unreality blurring all that had happened down in the lowlands.

With a brisk step Old Misery led the way through a stately stand of pines, so clean of ground-growth that wagons could pass without hindrance, and halted so that his companion might look upon the hidden camp. The valley extended nearly east and west between ridges covered with ancient trees. Bill Williams hurried to an overhanging shelf of rock and lay down on abed of dry grass. The two men remained a minute and in silence surveyed what to the younger was a strange scene.

A young bear, of the size of one in Nevada City, strained at his slender chain in an attempt to assail Mr. Williams. Old Misery advanced and released the prisoner, who gallantly attacked the veteran. Bill was in no mood to be bothered, and with one sweep of his huge paw he shot the six hundred pounds of merry-maker out from under the ledge. A smaller bear, a female, ran to Old Misery and stood up like a child to be petted. Three panther kittens and three wolf pups occupied two cages. To accommodate the human members of the little community were several log cabins strung along the southern slope. Straight ahead reared a blue-white peak of the Sierra.

Accompanied by the young bear, Old Misery led the way to the first cabin and directed:

“Heave your fixings inside and come along and git 'quainted. I always sleep in the open till the rains git too cold. So you'll have the roof to yourself.”

Gilbert was returning from the cabin when the girl Maria ran from the second cabin, gladly crying:

“Senor Comandante, it is ver' good for the heart to see your kind face again! Luck in your face, Senor Gilbert! Is it not? Sí.”

“No thanks to you he ain't straightening out a coil of rope, you young streak of scarlet,” growled the mountain man, yet content to have her cling to his fringed arm and dance sidewise so she could peer up into his face. “You young female hellion, what you mean by sneaking off and raising hob at the bay for? Mebbe your granddad had good reason for larruping you.”

She had kept up her dancing step and turned her laughing face toward Gilbert. She seemed to find much amusement in the young man's grave countenance. And, in truth, this meeting with the girl was shattering the unreality of the world down the big valley and was bringing San Francisco very close. He gave her a civil greeting, but his voice sounded strained. She laughed delightedly and jumped up and pecked at Old Misery's bearded face and then ran into the second cabin.

“She's a caution,” mumbled the mountain man. “But don't mean no more harm then some wild thing that scratches and draws blood in play. Here comes her grandpap.”

From the dark doorway came a little old Mexican of withered visage, his stunted stature made grotesque by the enormous black hat. Gilbert could only think of the gnomes who beguiled poor Rip into carrying the liquor up the mountainside. The old man wore a bright-colored serape over his left shoulder and had much silver up and down the outside of the slashed trousers. In a red sash was a silver-handled bowie-knife.

He peered up at them from under the brim of his big hat, bowed low and in Spanish said:

“Senor Comandante, my poor eyes already feel better now you are back home. I have returned thanks to Our Lady for the return of my wretched granddaughter. You bring a stranger with you. I can not see him well, but I think he is a young man.”

“He is a young man, Don Miguel, and not very wise. He is in trouble for helping Joaquin Murieta escape from a gambling-place in San Francisco.”

“Ah-h! He must be a very good young man, Senor Comandante. Surely he is a very wise young man to have helped the Great One!”

And old Miguel clawed Gilbert's arm with what was meant to be a caress.

“Alas, that the good God should have denied me such a grandson and sent me a wayward girl!”

To Gilbert the mountain man explained:

“Don Miguel. He won't talk to any one but me and this wildcat hanging on my arm. He's 'most blind. Wicked old dog in his day. Rode with men long since shot or hung. Come up here to hide, like an old wolf lapping his wounds, two years ago. He's kind to the animals and never quits this holler.”

To Miguel he advised: “You better go inside as the sun will hurt your eyes.”

“The sun!” mumbled the old man, turning back to the cabin. “No friend of mine. We rode by night when the world was black, or when the Fair Lady held a candle in the sky. But the sun—it was made for fools. Give the moon for lovers and those who had need to ride long and hard.”

He was still muttering as he disappeared through the dark doorway.

As Old Misery turned away Gilbert asked: “Who has the third cabin?”

“Two derned fools,” replied Old Misery. “If it wa'n't for that they'd be good fellers. Out prospecting some'ers. Think of men grubbing among rocks and digging in dirt, their eyes looking at the ground, when all they have to do is to take it easy and watch the sky and them mountains yonder!”

And he turned and stared like a mystic at the rocky crest of the mighty Sierra.

After a pause he continued:

“My animals have more sense. Birds have more sense. They don't waller in rivers and sluice mud into the Yuba till they smother the bars lower down, like Swiss Bar was wiped out above Marysville. Look at that fool girl bear. She gits more fun out of life than Weymouth Mass and Sailor Ben does. See Bill Williams taking his rest like a sensible man. Then think of them heyoka men we left scrambling and sweating to stake out claims on that bench down below. Them young wolves are tame as dog-pups because they have 'nough to eat. Same with the panther kittens. 'Nough in the world for all of us to eat, but some cusses want to git more'n they ever can eat. That means other folks must go hungry. That brings on fighting, and then hell's to pay. How's 'Merica, Maria?”

“Ver' sad, caballero,” she gravely replied. “He looks at the mountains, or down toward the Sacramento all the time. I stand before his eyes. He does not see me.”

“S'pose we have a powwow with him,” mumbled Old Misery, turning in behind the third cabin and climbing the slope.

For Gilbert's benefit he explained:

“Some Injuns caught him in a trap. They was going to eat him. I bought the old cuss with some wolf-skins. They're keen to have wolf-skin leggings as it's good medicine. I'm beginning to think he don't thank me for keeping him out of an Injun stomach. He's one of the things that never takes to civ'lization. Wants to wander and see things and places!”

He led the way into a natural little clearing up the slope and halted before a large bald eagle fastened by a stout length of rawhide around one leg. The prisoner ceased striking his strong, hooked bill at the tether as the three came up, and turned his inscrutable eyes toward the golden west. His head and tail were white, the rest of his plumage being a brownish-black. As Gilbert looked at the proud captive he could only think of Old Misery with his white beard and frosty eyes. The mountain man imitated an elk's whistle. The bird remained immovable.

Old Misery plucked at his beard and mused:

“You're worth fifty dollars, delivered in Nevada City, partner. But that's a hell of a price to take for selling the only bird that ever got his picter on the 'Merican dollar! Lawd! What a come-down! Flying round at the top of the sky, then to be catched by Injuns and be hitched by one leg down in this hole! Much like I'd feel if they took me back East and let on I must always stay in one place! Maria, you fetch a heavy blanket—sudden.”

The girl bounded down the slope and vanished in the growth. Soon she was reappearing and waving a thick blanket. Old Misery took the blanket and threw it over the eagle and closed in, holding the bird despite its frantic endeavors and calling for Gilbert to take the knife from his belt and cut the cord.

Gilbert drew the long knife from the mountain man's worn belt and started to sever the rawhide a foot from the leg.

“Don't leave any on the leg,” bellowed Old Misery. “Cut the knot! Hi! You'll chop his leg off! Stand back. You streak of scarlet, show your blood with that knife.”

The girl seized the knife from Gilbert's inexperienced hand and knicked the knot with lightning precision. Old Misery leaped back, snatching the blanket away. For a moment the bird appeared to be confused; then he shot like a bolt into the air and circled higher and higher.

“Go it, you 'Merican-dollar eagle!” hoarsely bawled the mountain man. “Climb to Kingdom Come to make sure you ain't asleep and having a Hawk dream. There he goes!”

And the eagle ceased his spirals and swept away toward the gold and emerald valley of the Sacramento.

“Senor Comandante gives wings to feefty dollars,” said Maria to Gilbert.

Old Misery gazed at her in silence for a moment, then exploded:

“And you'd sell a man for that price.”

She laughed lazily and glanced at Gilbert through half-closed eyes and danced ahead of them down the slope and to the cabins.

“If she liked the man, no matter how low-down he was, she wouldn't sell him for all the gold in Californy,” amended the mountain man as he and Gilbert more sedately descended to the valley.

Each cabin cooked and ate by itself. Old Misery brought deer meat from a cool little pocket under a ledge, whence issued a tiny stream of ice-cold water. Gilbert promptly offered to prepare the food.

The mountain man hesitated and explained: “I ain't fond of squaw work, but I'm mortal hungry after climbing 'way up here.”

“I'm not entirely a fool,” Gilbert earnestly assured him. “Really I can cook after a fashion. If that's an oven I think I can make some fair bread.”

He pointed to a Dutch oven.

“Saleratus powder's in the cabin. Try your luck,” consented Old Misery. “I'll travel a bit and git the kinks out my legs.”

He took his rifle and wandered into the timber back of the cabin.

A batch of bread was soon mixed and set to baking. When it was nearly done the steaks were skilfully broiled and coffee prepared.

Then the cook raised his voice in a loud: “Hoo-ooh!”

Bill Williams woke up and ambled forward, sniffing the air. Old Misery stepped into view and yelled for the bear to lie down. His sudden appearance suggested to Gilbert he had been close by all the time.

“Best bread I ever sunk a tooth into 'cept what I bake myself,” he mumbled as he filled his mouth. “Maria has tried to cook for me, but she's too fond of mixing in red peppers. Wolves won't eat a Mexican, his hide's so peppery from eating bitey stuff.”

After he had demonstrated what one meant by referring to a “mountain man's” appetite he fed the bear, gave him a chew of tobacco for dessert and lighted his pipe. Gilbert went to the cabin and procured a book from his bag, returned to the fire and replenished it and endeavored to read. But his mind was brooding over his troubles, and he closed the book with a sigh.

“S'pose those Coloma men are still waiting for you to show up,” Old Misery suddenly remarked.

“It's hell to think of it, and I can't think of anything else,” groaned Gilbert. “I must get to mining. I must find enough gold to make up what I lost.”

“Some greenhorns do strike it rich,” reflected the mountain man. “But mighty few. In the old days 'forty-eight and 'forty-nine, when they dug gold from the cracks in the rocks, and butcher-knives went up to thirty dollars apiece, and I was selling teeny iron tacks for their weight in gold, 'most every one out here was a greenhorn at mining. But they ain't digging it out of cracks in a ledge now; and they're building lodges of brick and stone and don't need tacks to fasten cloth over a frame of poles.

“If you kept busy prospecting for yourself for the next year you might make four hundred dollars. That is, if you was fair-to-middling lucky for a greenhorn. But first you'd have to find a claim that would pay eight or ten dollars a day. You'd work it out in two or three weeks. Then you'd drift to find another. You'd have to buy a mule. You'd always be buying grub. You'd use up lots of time hunting for pay-diggings that no one was on, and you'd have to be within reach of a store. Mebbe four hundred is putting it too high.”

“Good heavens! If I cleared only that much it would take me four or five years to make up what I—stole,” cried Gilbert, nonplused at such dire prophecy.

“To make up what you got to fooling with. You didn't mean to steal it,” corrected the mountain man. “You can stay along with me, and if we suit one t'other I'll give you five dollars a day. Mebbe I can find a likely-looking bit of diggings where you can make it faster for a couple of weeks.”

“But if you found it, it would be yours to work,” said Gilbert.

“Why should I break my old back digging in the ground? I ain't no prairie dog. Or git rheumatiz by standing up to my middle in icy water? What would I do with it if I dug it? I ain't 'going back home in the spring,' as Weymouth Mass and Pretty Soon Jim and a lot more keep yepping about. I don't want a fine house. I don't like houses. They hamper a man.I like to wander and see what's on t'other side the mountain. And there's always some new mountain to coax me along. Almighty must 'a' wanted folks to prowl round 'em, else why did He make 'em?

“They never was built up just for b'ars and eagles to look at. And how can a man wander if he's tied to a house; or carries along a mule-load of gold? 'Merica, my eagle, was hitched by a stout rawhide. Men are hitched to a spot by what they own. Thank God I ain't hitched. I'm free of foot. I have to pack lead 'n' powder and some terbaccer. When I first got out here, when I was a younker, the Injuns showed me how to dress skins. So I git my clothes with my rifle. No one on earth owns a better country than I do, or has more to eat and more time to sleep.

“'Course you've got to save and scrimp and pay back what you lost gambling. Derned if that streak of scarlet didn't git you into a fine mess of trouble at the bay!”

“I can't blame her. I shouldn't have done it,” said Gilbert, bowing his head.

“That's what they say when they lose. But heads are high and feeling mighty smart and pert when they win. You know, I've seen old mountain men swear off drinking whisky when their heads was aching powerful bad. After the ache was gone they'd sort of change their idees and walk five hundred miles to find a bar and make the eagle scream. But if you're soured for good on gambling your losing that money won you a mighty big pot.”

“Stole it and gambled it away,” miserably reflected Gilbert.

“That way, if it makes you feel better. But if you'd broke the bank we'd heard mighty little 'bout stealing. What's that book?”

Gilbert listlessly replied:

“The Three Guardsmen. Written by a Frenchman.”

“Huh!” snorted the mountain man. “Won't pan out much. I've knowed lots of big mountain men who was French. They have mighty neat fighting ways with Injuns. But a cuss that'll spend time writing a lot of lies can't weigh much … What's it 'bout?”

Two hours later, his eyes smarting and his throat hoarse and sore, Gilbert insisted he could no longer pursue the adventures of the immortal D'Artagnan.

Old Misery, who had assiduously fed dry twigs to the fire to afford light, rubbed his head as if emerging from a deep sleep and exclaimed:

“For lord's sake! But ain't he a young hellion? And them three pards of his! Younker, the man who writ them lies wa'n't no common Frenchman. He must 'a' been an old mountain man in his day. Every squaw crazy over 'em! It ain't no book for Maria to read. Too free 'n' easy. But we'll finish it in a night or two if it bu'sts a gut.”

Morning came with sprightly assurance to the valley. When Gilbert turned out of the cabin it was to find Old Misery was gone. His blankets hung on the limb of a tree. The fire showed the mountain man had eaten his breakfast. Gilbert prepared his food and ate slowly, his eyes on the second cabin, and hoping the girl Maria would join him.

Old Miguel came to the door and sat on the sill-log, his hat pulled well forward to shield his eyes from the radiance poured down the valley from the sun balanced on the crest of the Sierra. Depressed and lonely, Gilbert slowly approached the huddled figure, thinking the girl might appear.

Miguel heard the cautious step, and his claw of a hand flew to his belt, and the heavy knife was poised over his head, and he was snarling:

“Halt! Who is?”

“Gilbert. The greenhorn,” hurriedly answered Gilbert.

The knife was thrust under the sash, and old Miguel was erect, worrying his eyes by removing his hat and bowing low.

“Mi compadre is welcome,” he slowly said in English. “Gran' caballero. My young brother. I salute him who helped the Great One.”

And with another flourish he sank back on the log and resumed his hat.

To be treated with such respect was most pleasing although it included the conviction he was hand in glove with Joaquin Murieta. Ambition contains many planes, and the Vermonter was well pleased for the time to be ranked as the friend of a bandit and the object of a broken-down outlaw's respect. So he did not disclaim any felonious intention in showing Murieta the hidden window. Instead he squatted before the Mexican and began asking questions.

Old Miguel answered as best he could, sometimes speaking in Spanish when his English failed. Gilbert did not ask for the girl, the one thing he wished to learn, but in time Miguel informed him she had gone away early in the morning with the mountain man. When would she be back? The good God knew. But who else? One knew when the last snow left the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, when the rains would come and the wild geese and ducks would return from the far north. But as to knowing what one inspired by the Satan would do—quien sabe?

About midday, however, and while Gilbert was broiling extra steaks on the chance Old Misery would be returning, the two came back. The girl ran to her cabin; the mountain man came to the fire and nodded approvingly to find dinner all but ready. He offered no explanation of his absence, and Gilbert was too wise to ask. The girl reappeared after they had eaten and fed the panther kittens and the wolf pups. Old Misery reserved the bears for his own attention. He had finished with his pets when his attention was attracted by Bill Williams pointing his nose down the valley and staring with all his little eyes.

The mountain man gave a sharp quick glance and was commanding Gilbert: “Into the woods behind your cabin. Don't show up 'less I call. If you're to hoof it the girl will show you the way.”

Then he whistled like an elk, and Maria suddenly emerged from her cabin. In a panic Gilbert ran into the pines.

Old Misery gave the girl a signal, and she moved with gliding step to the rear of her cabin and sat down. The mountain man then spoke to Bill Williams, and with the bear behind him hurriedly walked down the valley toward the grove that masked the entrance. As he advanced he caught the hubbub of voices.

He came to a halt and dropped his rifle in the hollow of his left arm. Several men broke through the timber. Then came some pack-animals. Old Misery swore in his beard and eyed them in deep disgust. They were the same men who had overtaken him in the ravine below. He turned toward the cabins and lifted a hand high above his head and almost at once was answered by a shrill call.

Relaxing, he turned back to face the newcomers. Phelps and the Georgia man, mounted, were in the lead. The horses tried to bolt on smelling the bear and the riders had to dismount to hold them.

The Georgia man wrathfully cried: “Take that damn bear back!”

“Keep your hoss-flesh back till we've had a powwow. Bill here is fond of hoss-flesh.”

“If he comes at my hoss I'll plug him,” warned the Georgia man.

“And I'll cut your throat for doing it!” roared the mountain man.

“Easy, Misery. No hard feelings. No harm meant,” spoke up Phelps, who was well acquainted with the mountain man's temper.

Over his shoulder he called out: “You fellows take your mules and our horses back to that patch of feed below the timber.” Then to the mountain man: “We've tracked you, Misery.”

“This holler's mine,” rumbled Old Misery. “I ain't honing for company.”

“It's your hollow, but when it comes to hunting gold, gold has the right of way,” Phelps amiably replied. “But I'll do the talking for the crowd. No need for them to come streaming in yet. We're still curious about that gold you was tossing round in Nevada City. It wa'n't scale gold from the Yuba ridges. It wa'n't smooth and round and worn, neither.”

“Well, powwow, then you folks can hunt for gold all you want to so long as you don't trouble my animals,” replied Old Misery. “And a blind squirrel can pack all the gold you find to Nevada City in one eye.”

“We'll keep the hosses and mules in the lower opening and make our camp there till we've staked claims. As to not finding gold we don't agree with you,” said Phelps with a laugh. “This place is your home. You fetched some likely-looking gold to Nevada City. It wa'n't river gold. I'm enough of a ledge man to know you've struck a rich lode. Take your double claim and don't begrudge us our share.”

“If I have any gold I found it. S'pose you find your share. This holler is only part of my home. Rest of it stretches the whole length of the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra, and laps over into the Coast Range. I know where you can shovel gold out by the cartload, but not here in Grass Holler. I know where there's loads of silver. Three years ago I was with miners over the ridge in Carson Valley. They went from this side to nose round for gold. And there's a mountain of silver that waits for 'em who likes it.”

Phelps continued to laugh, and replied:

“Nice wild-goose chase you'd send us on. Nice one you sent us on down below.”

“Told you you'd find color. If you panned any dirt you found it.”

“Well, that's so. Pretty strong color, too. But the bench once was an ancient river bed. Gold all worn and smooth. We're after that sharp-edged stuff you gave the Chinaman.”

“'Course you are,” agreed Old Misery. “Don't blame you a bit. And I'll give you a couple pounds of it if you'll stand against the cabin and let me heave knives at you as I did that long-tailed cuss. But I can't have Grass Holler overrun for nothing. You name four or five men to come in here and prospect. When they find what 'pears to be pay-dirt, or rich ledge, t'others can come in and locate, and I'll move on. I'll have Bill Williams keep to his hole under the overhanging ledge and the men must keep clear of him. T'other bears are only cubs. One tied up is six months and past and has a dangerous mouth, but he don't mean no more harm'n a kitten. T'other one ain't hardly got her teeth yet.”

“You talk reasonable,” admitted Phelps. “And you're either bluffing, or it's another wild-goose chase. I'll go back and talk with the boys.”

Old Misery walked back to his cabin and ordered Bill Williams under the ledge and fastened a stout chain to a hind leg. The bear did not like it and said as much.

“Now, Bill, be sensible,” pleaded the mountain man. “It's good medicine for you. It won't be for long.”

He called for Gilbert to show himself. Maria entered her cabin as the young man emerged from the pines.

“Only the same parcel of gold-hunters that chased us down below,” Old Misery told him. “Bigger nuisance then a band of hungry Injuns. They think I've got a gold mine up here. Them clothes you're wearing make you stand out like Lassen's Butte. We'll have to see if Maria can't fix over one of my new suits of buckskins.”

Phelps soon came up the valley alone and stared curiously at the cabins and animals. He announced that a committee of five would be named and the valley prospected on the morrow.

He recognized Gilbert and with a broad grin asked:

“Had any chance to use that magnet or telescope yet?”

“You know I threw all that truck away. I'm working for Old Misery. He says day-wages are better than hunting for gold.”

Phelps' brown face puckered thoughtfully as he slowly agreed:

“Much better. I happened to strike it rich down in Grass Valley. Pure accident. Most prospectors are like Weymouth Mass—always drifting, always hunting. Even if they find ounce-diggings they won't stick. Next place is bound to be better and richer. Always moving around and hunting for something better.”

“Weymouth is round here now,” Old Misery informed them. “Fetched Sailor Ben up to sober him off. If he can keep Ben sober he'll find a heap of gold. But it takes Ben so long to git over a spree that by the time he's ready to prove his luck he'll full-cocked to git drunk again. Weymouth says he won't try him after this season. Think of the medicine in that salt-water cuss just going to waste!”

“Weymouth up here?” mused Phelps, his eyes narrowing. “He's been out here three years, always worked hard, never helled around any, and he never made better than grub and tobacco. Now he has a notion there's gold close by this little valley.”

And he stared sharply at the mountain man's expressionless face.

“Knowing Weymouth as I do, and knowing the first thing he'd do on a New England farm would be to try a pan of dirt, I'd bet a full-grown grizzly that he's panned every bit of loose soil he can find in and round this holler,” was the prompt reply. “He was up here most of last season. Mebbe he struck it rich then. If he's a lucky cuss to foller you'll soon see him. Your five men can dog him round. No knowing when Ben's medicine may begin working.”

“He's damned unlucky,” growled Phelps, frowning. “Up here last season, eh? The boys will lose their appetite for this place when I tell them Weymouth has had the run of the place. What say to dropping into our camp to-night? Fetch young Ounce-Diggings here along. If Weymouth and the sailor show up, fetch them.”

Old Misery readily accepted the invitation, but warned that no liquor was to be given Sailor Ben.

As Phelps was turning back to rejoin his companions the mountain man inquired:

“Any talk from down country? Or did you keep too close to our heels to hear it?”

“Feller making for the Truckee River road said Murieta was raising hell again. Six dead men found where he'd left them on his way to San Joaquin Valley. Folks at the bay stirred up worse'n ever and offering more money for his head and Three-Finger Jack's crippled hand. The El Dorado alone offers a thousand for either of the pair. They hope to git the young Englishman that escaped from the hall with Murieta. They say he fetched in the guns for the band. Door-tender remembers him as he's the only one who didn't have ary arms when he entered the place

“Men are hunting for suspects up this way and down to Stockton and Mariposa. Fast as they find a man that answers the description he'll be taken to the bay and the door-tender will look him over. Folks at the bay now think he separated from Murieta after they went through the winder. People saw the Mexicans running up the street and swear he wasn't with them. Between you'n me he come north. If he was going Stockton or Mariposa way he'd kept along with the band. He's either up this way or laying low in Frisco. Others think it, too. They've finished with Sacramento and are combing Marysville by this time. But come down to camp and we'll have some fun.”

“I'll be there with my scalp-shirt on. Tell the boys meat's fifty cents a pound when their grub runs out. I won't be harsh with 'em.”

“Harsh, hell! If we stay around here long enough you'll make more than the whole of us will.”

“I done that when there was more folks at Selby's Bar then there was at Caldwell's store, now Nevada City,” was Old Misery's parting rejoinder.

The mountain man made the rounds of his camp, inspecting his pets, and then took Bill Williams for a stroll through the timber on the north slope. Gilbert, not being invited, remained sprawled out by the Dutch oven, knowing he should feel very guilty instead of enjoying the glory of the sunset.

Maria came with her smooth, gliding step, slim brown hands resting on her hips, her head tilted and her red lips smiling. She halted and stared down at him. He crawled to his feet and bowed, his face flushing as he suspected amusement in her slumbrous gaze.

“He has the gran' manner. Ver' like a beeg caballero. I salute you, Senor Gilbert.”

He gestured for her to be seated on the grass and remarked:

“You've lived here some time before going to San Francisco?”

She shrugged her shoulders and from her blouse produced a small cigar and lighted it with a coal from the smoldering fire. Gilbert averted his gaze that she might not detect his disapproval.

She puffed contentedly and answered:

“Maria stays here sometimes. But, Nombre de Dios! It is not leeving. Beel Williams leeves here.”

There was pathos in her hopeless voice. Only remembrance of the part she had played in his downfall restrained Gilbert from venturing on the dangerous ground of pity. Then she was all animation and laughing and softly clapping her hands and pointing to a pine-squirrel and a red-headed woodpecker engaged in a lively battle.

“El Bravo! Ver' brave caballero! He makes the robber run! Bueno! Senor Carpentero, I salute you!”

“The woodpecker drives the squirrel away. Why?” asked Gilbert, boyishly interested.

“Senor Carpentero drills a hole in the oak or pine beeg enough to hold the nut of the oak. The robber on four legs comes to steal. They fight! Is it not? All day one hides away, one comes to steal. Jus' like men. Down in the valley of the Sacramento, where there are many oaks, they hide and steal all the time.”

Her enjoyment of the woods warfare was that of a little child. Gilbert found it difficult to reconcile this simplicity with the cunning and sophistication she had displayed in seducing him to appropriate others' gold and gamble it away.

Interested in her description of the “carpenter's” way of storing nuts, Gilbert examined the tree. It was a yellow pine. Its thick bark resembled cork and was divided into smooth areas measuring some four inches by six. These surfaces appeared to be studded with wooden pegs. A closer examination revealed each “peg” to be an acorn, driven into a nicely calculated hole by the industrious bird.

“That's mighty smart! That's clever!” Gilbert admiringly exclaimed.

“Like a Yankee trick, si?" murmured the girl mischievously.

Sounds of the warfare being renewed in the growth back of old Miguel's cabin led Gilbert in that direction.

To his surprise the girl displayed agitation and seized his arm and insisted:

“No, no. He ver' queer old man. Ver' queeck not to like it. We will go back to the fire and talk.”

“Your grandfather doesn't want any one to walk in the pines behind his cabin?” inquired the puzzled youth.

“He is ver' queer old man. We will go back to the fire.”

He allowed himself to be led away; but remonstrated:

“But why not? This valley belongs to Old Misery. He hasn't said there is any part of it I'm not to visit.”

“It is ver' bad,” she simply replied. “Senor Misery would say ver' bad medicine! It is not good for you to walk too much alone, senor.”

“What about the miners, Miss? They'll be swarming through this part of the valley to-morrow.”

She was visibly disturbed and rapidly said something in Spanish which he did not understand.

Then in English she abruptly said:

“Good-by. To-morrow we will talk again. Is it not?”

And with her gliding step she returned to her cabin and entered.

“Good lord! What would the Walker girls think of her?” he muttered.

He was still meditating over her strange behavior and wondering why the patch of pines back of the second cabin should be forbidden him when his line of thought was broken by the female bear. She was fat and heavy but as yet did not possess a “dangerous mouth.” She insisted on romping and on being petted.

When Old Misery returned he found his protégé and the bear rolling on the grass and wrestling, with the tetherd bear frantically trying to break loose and join in the fun.

The mountain man grinned approvingly and remarked:

“The little lady takes to you. That's a p'int in your favor, younker. She's far safer for you to play with than some other little ladies.” And his gaze switched around toward old Miguel's cabin.

Ignoring the hint, Gilbert asked:

“Why isn't it all right for me to walk through the woods?”

“You've got two legs. Roads are open. Go where you want to, but don't git lost.”

“But Maria says I mustn't.” And he related how she had interrupted his quest for more samples of the carpenter bird's work behind Miguel's cabin.

Old Misery stroked his beard thoughtfully, then surprised Gilbert by saying:

“That young streak of scarlet has the right of it. I was forgitting. Don't wander behind that cabin till you git better 'quainted with the valley—and with Miguel. What's the name of the boss of the Vermont outfit you was to give the gold to in Coloma?”

“Elnathan Plumb. The letter was sent to him. What'll they be thinking? The letter that told of my coming took only twenty-five days by the way of the Isthmus. If they'd only written to Plumb to go to San Francisco and get the money instead of having me carry it to him, but they wouldn't chance his having died before the letter reached Coloma.”

“Yankees don't like to take chances,” growled Old Misery. “But they was right. Men move 'round mighty sudden out here. And drop out of sight. And, mebbe, the folks back home thought you'd be able to deliver the dust.”

Gilbert groaned.

The mountain man continued:

“But fretting 'n' fussing don't dress any hides. 'Stead of looking back and being sorry look ahead and see how the muss can be mended.”

“Mended!” And Gilbert laughed despairingly. “Even if I was worth five dollars a day to you, which I never could be, it would take me a year to make up what I lost.”

“Well, we'll see,” gravely replied the mountain man. “I've lived with Injuns so long that I don't mind waiting a bit. There's no end to the number of days hiding be low the eastern sky-line. Every twenty-four hours a new one comes streaming along. Of course it's different with a double-time feller like you. I'm plumb s'prised the Coloma man didn't git that letter afore it was sent.”

Dropping his sarcasm, he seriously added:

“I picked up some of the best medicines among the Injuns. I've got a mighty strong Crow medicine. It might work, but it's best for stealing hosses. I lived with 'em till my wife died. Then the lodge seemed sorter lone some. Mebbe a Chippewa medicine I got from old Flat Mouth, chief of the Pillager Band, would be stronger. I dunno. I like the Crows as a tribe. Still I don't let my likings fool me 'bout medicines. I hanker more for a good Chippewa medicine-song then I do for a Crow, Sioux, or Cheyenne. They're so damn human.”

And he hummed under his breath, “He-hi-hi-hi,” the meaningless exclamations used to fill out a Midi song.

Gilbert gazed at him in amazement, unable to decide whether the old man was crazy, or was making more fun of him. The mountain man was thoroughly in earnest, however, and plucked at his beard and frowned as he weighed some point.

Finally he muttered:

“Two nights ago I dreamed the clouds was choking the eastern sky. Old Flat Mouth could guess its meaning, but damned if I can. Last night I dreamed I was young again and singing the 'Four Bears' song. I'll have to burn some terbacker. If old Flat Mouth could talk to me a minute, or any man who's took the fourth degree in the Midewiwin, he'd guess my dreams. There are eight degrees, but a fourth-degree man oughter be strong 'nough.” And he cleared his throat and repeated, “Ho ho-ho-ho.”

“I can't see—” Gilbert began.

“Then keep shet. It ain't needed for you to see. Had your eyes open ever since you was born'd, ain't you? Ain't seen much yet, have you? Eyes didn't do you much good in Frisco, did they? You know you're in a bad mess. It's hurting you inside a heap and all the time to think how you lost that gold. But showing that cussed Joaquin the way to the winder is a worse business for you. He'd found it and got out without your help, but folks are blaming you.

“Now some one's got to snag you out of two bad messes. You're more helpless than that little bear gal there, trying to wake Bill Williams without gitting lambasted. If you know any white medicine that'll help you, go into the woods and raise a lodge. If you don't know any, then keep out the trail and let a red medicine have a chance to work.”

And he turned on his heel and walked up into the pines.

Thoroughly miserable, Gilbert lay on his face on the grass and dropped asleep. He did not know the girl Maria sat by him, watching him and thinking primitive, fundamental thoughts. Night was blotting out the fresh spring colors in the lower valley when the girl glided back to her cabin in time to escape the sharp eyes of Old Misery. The mountain man was accompanied by two men, and it was the one with the rolling gait that aroused Gilbert from a home-dream by cursing in hoarse blue water terms. Gilbert threw some pine cones on the coals and glanced apprehensively at the newcomers. The one with the long beard had the stature of a giant.

The mountain man shortly told his companions:

“This is my new helper.”

He enlightened Gilbert by saying:

“This is Weymouth Mass and his medicine, Sailor Ben. Two fool miners. We'll eat and walk down to Phelps' camp. Younker, you're dog-tired and best stay here.”

And he nudged Gilbert's leg with the toe of his moccasin.

“Can't see your colors,” growled the sailor, dropping heavily on the grass. “Two much land. Every breeze is a squall over the weather bow. Come of quitting blue water.”

“Now, Ben! None of that,” rumbled Weymouth Mass. Then to Gilbert: “I'd think you'd go in for hunting gold. You look to be able-bodied. Somewhere in these old mountains is the mother-lode. The source of all gold! Thrown up by a volcano. Some one will find it some time. It might be a greenhorn. Probably will be, if”—and he paused to stare down at the figure of the sailor—“if some worthless creature that's supposed to be lucky stops his natural-born luck from leading him to it.”

“Avast! Heave short! Too much land,” complained Sailor Ben.

Weymouth seated himself and stirred up the coals and mildly inquired:

“What were you doing in the little brush shelter, Misery? I almost stepped on it.”

“What'n hell you want to come prowling round in the woods for?” snorted the mountain man wrathfully. “Had a notion you'd find gold hanging on the pines? Huh!” Aside to Gilbert he explained: “I raised a lodge and was working my medicine hard when the big lummox come crashing along and sp'iled everything. But this ain't eating.”

They took the hint and bestirred themselves in preparing the evening meal, Gilbert proving himself to be very capable. The big miner was eager to assist, but did little beyond getting in the way. Sailor Ben made no pretense at helping, frankly stating it would impair his stock of luck. He impressed Gilbert as being a sour, disgruntled sort of man. With the glow of the fire painting their faces they ate their supper. Old Misery threw a bit of food over his shoulder to propitiate the ghosts before tasting the meat and bread. Weymouth Mass between mouthfuls cast puzzled glances at Gilbert, trying to remember why the young man's face was familiar.

At last it came back to him, and, pounding a big fist on his knee, he roared:

“Glory be! That's it! The young man who wanted to shoot Bill Williams!”

“You've told it to the Humboldt Mountains, Weymouth,” grumbled the mountain man. “Bill Williams knows that was all a bit of fun. All the younker had was an Allen. You'll forgit all about it, Weymouth.”

The Massachusetts man was puzzled, but detected a warning in the words, and mumbled:

“Forget all about it. Of course.”

Sailor Ben came to his feet buoyantly when Old Misery announced it was time to be on their way to the miners' camp.

But Weymouth sternly warned:

“Now, Ben! None of that. I know the signs. You're still on deck. No carousing while on watch. I won't have it.”

“When you're in ballast and the weather's calm—” hoarsely began the sailor.

“Not a single snort!” warmly broke in Weymouth.

“Don't lost your ha'r, Weymouth. There ain't a drink in the whole outfit,” spoke up Old Misery.

Ben sank back on the grass, sighed dismally and decided:

“I'll take a few winks while waiting for a breeze.”

Gilbert already had taken the hint and announced his intention of going to bed.

Miner and mountain wanderer went down the valley together, the former carefully explaining how the sailor's secret hankering for rum was interfering with his luck.

“The gold's waiting to be found, and he can find it, Misery. Find the mother-lode! Think of it! Cliffs and solid walls of pure gold! But he can't get results from his luck so long's his mind is pickled in whisky. We didn't do any real hunting to-day. Just put in the time hustling him up and down the slopes to sweat the rum notions out of his thick head. In a few days he'll be ripe to work. Then—a mountain of pure gold!”

“Huh! When that happy day comes, Weymouth, gold won't be worth as much as a spruce lodge-pole in the Black Hills. And they grow tolerably thick there.”

Weymouth wound his beard around his arm and thoughtfully replied:

“We'll only cart away a part of the cliff or ledge at a time. We'll be very sly.”

“Sly like a drunken Teton. One thing's in your favor. Every one believes Ben is a liar, and you was never known to find any gold in all the time you've been out there. So if you wear ragged clothes and beg for grub—”

“You exaggerate most cruelly, Misery. And there's the camp-fire,” interrupted Weymouth.

The two received a boisterous welcome, and a leather bottle containing nearly a gallon of Sonora brandy was produced. Weymouth refused, saying the sailor might detect the aroma on his breath and be tempted. Old Misery drank generously and endorsed it with a ringing war-whoop. Then Phelps and the Georgia man, speaking for the party, began a sharp examination of Weymouth.

The Massachusetts man reclined at ease and puffed his pipe and stated his firm belief there was a great quantity of gold in that immediate vicinity; but his listeners exchanged gloomy glances and did not seem to be rejoicing. When he was pinned down to details of his search it soon became apparent he had depended entirely upon the sailor and that the latter's luck couldn't work so long as he was yearning for strong drink.

“But Ben always wants a drink,” cried the Georgia man. “Haven't you done any digging and panning?”

“A little. No color yet. But I don't depend on that. I'm depending on Ben. All in good time, after I've sweat, fried and boiled the rum-hankering out of him.”

“Don't you boys git down-hearted,” spoke up Old Misery. “Just tell 'em all you know about gold, Weymouth. Then they'll see you're a good man to listen to.”

Weymouth, pleased to have a fresh and willing audience, readily obliged, saying:

“Gold is a queer thing. Queerer than a woman. It's almost as old as woman, too. If you know the Good Book you'll remember that in the first chapter of Genesis it reads, “Male and female created He them.” And that a few verses farther on, in the next chapter, it says that there's gold in the land of Havilah, and that the gold there is good.”

“That's a camp down on the head of the Kern River!” exclaimed one of the men.

“Then it was named after the 'Havilah' in the Bible,” insisted Weymouth, but looking worried. “But the mother-lode can't be way down there. It must be up here.”

“Mebbe there's a ridge of gold that stretches from hereabouts 'way down there,” encouraged Old Misery.

The immensity of this possibility dazed Weymouth for a moment; then he resumed, speaking quite like a pedagogue:

“Old Job knew all about mining, too. He was a keen prospector, I imagine. He tells of 'laying up gold as dust,' and swears that the gold of Ophir was “as the stones of the brooks.” Nuggets, you see.”

“Hell! that's on the Feather up near Bidwell's Bar!” cried one of the audience.

“Never knew they'd mentioned Ophir in the Bible,” confessed the Georgia man. “Anyway, that old cuss was a placer-man, all right.”

“Placer-man first; then a quartz man,” firmly corrected Weymouth. “For you'll find where he says, 'Surely there is a vein for the silver and place for gold where they fine it.' His way of spelling refine. Proves they had stamp-mills.”

“If that ain't medicine that proves what I told you cusses about silver in Carson Valley then I never ate boiled dog!” loudly insisted Old Misery.

“Those old galoots knew the game backward,” conceded a shaggy man from Ohio.

Weymouth recovered his line of thought after a bit and went on:

“So gold's a queer thing. As queer and old as woman. And silver's almost as queer. Some two thousand years ago Abraham paid four hundred shekels of silver for a burying-place. Inside of one year Solomon collected six hundred and sixty-six talents in gold.”

“Cuss me if he didn't have Joaquin Murieta looking like a scorched pup!” exploded Old Misery. “That is, if a 'talent' was a heap big coin.”

“His one year's collection in our money would amount to a million and a half dollars,” explained Weymouth. “It made silver 'to be as the stones in Jerusalem.'”

“What I've always said,” broke in the Georgia man. “Silver's no good.”

“There were cords of gold in Babylon,” Weymouth in formed them, fearing to lose his audience. “One old Persian king got together seventeen million dollars' worth of gold.”

“Hold on,” growled Phelps. “Leave that for Sailor Ben to tell.”

“But it's true,” firmly insisted the Massachusetts man. “If you think that's a fair-to-middling lot of gold what do you say to a king in Egypt, who, says history, was worth eighty-six million dollars in gold?”

“I'd say hist'ry's a damned old liar!” roared the mountain man belligerently, the brandy making him argumentative. “No one can count as high. How can a man tell he has that much if he can't count it? Waugh!”

“If it is true,” growled the Georgia man, “then we're wasting our time up here. Those old-timers must 'a' got it all.”

“Let's get back to the beginning,” suggested Phelps. “Misery, we've named a committee of five men to prospect your valley. Now, Weymouth, all this Bible gold happened several years ago. We want to know about gold of to-day. Have you found any likely prospects?”

“Not yet. But I will. I'll find the mother-lode. Ben's luck will begin working after I get the rum-thoughts out of his head. Luck and gold are the queerest things in the world except a woman.”

Old Misery fished a small bag from his shirt and from it extracted a tiny bit of gold shaped like an Indian moccasin, and declared:

“That's the only bit of gold I ever took a shine to. Looks like a Crow moccasin. It's strong medicine; I'd rather have it than to dream of hawks. Needn't begin making wolf eyes. It come from Coarse Gold Gulch in Fresno. I told you I got gold in trade from all over. Of course there's a mother-lode of gold some'ers; but when you fellers find it gold will drop to about two-bits a thousand pounds. I'm feeling too wolfish round the shoulders to talk any more about picking gold out of mud. I'll wrassle, run, jump or fight any man in the crowd.”

The circle exchanged uneasy glances. There were but few of them who had not seen Old Misery in his moments of relaxation. Weymouth read the storm signals and announced:

“Time we went up the valley and slept it off, Misery.”

“But I feel playful,” insisted the mountain man. “Let's have a ring-wrassle. Me on the inside the circle trying to git out.”

Weymouth Mass leisurely got to his feet; then seized the unsuspecting mountain man by thigh and shoulder, raised him above his head and said to the gaping circle:

“Good night.”

“Damn you, Weymouth! Let me down,” roared the mountain man. “I've got my knife out! I'll cut your head off!”

“If you do, it'll simply prove what a fool rum can make of a man,” grunted Weymouth, still walking slowly into the timber.

“Set me on my feet,” shortly commanded Old Misery. “I'm harmless as Bill Williams. Don't seem to be any fun left in the world. Mebbe it's because those old cusses found gold.”

CHAPTER V

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

THE committee of five prospected the valley widely, taking care to keep away from Bill Williams' retreat under the overhanging ledge. For several days they ranged back and forth. Old Misery was annoyed by their presence, but bowing before the immutable law that gives gold the right of way. At last, in disgust, they went down the valley for the last time and dispersed in search of new prospects.

Shortly after they broke camp Old Misery, unaccompanied by the bear, wandered far up the valley and did not return until the next day.

To Gilbert he said:

“I'm going away for a bit pretty soon. While I'm gone you stick close here. Weymouth Mass will see that no one bothers you when he's round, and that streak of scarlet will lead you into hiding if it looks stormy while Weymouth's away. I'm going back in the hills higher up and make a new medicine.”

He took cooked food with him and was gone until night. He was in a bad humor when he returned and cursed much under his breath. Gilbert could not imagine what could be the trouble. The mountain man entered the cabin that night and rubbed his arms with something from a bottle.

Gilbert offered to rub his back and was surprised to be courteously encouraged:

“Go ahead.”

“Panther oil,” grunted Misery as the young man kneaded the shoulder muscles. “Powerful good for aches and lames.”

“You must have wrenched yourself in some way,” remarked Gilbert as he rippled his oiled fingers up and down each side of the backbone.

“That hurts like hell and feels powerful good!” groaned Misery. “If you mean I lamed myself, I done it in every way. There, younker! Reckon that'll do. Hau! Begin to feel wolfish again.”

He was gone the next day, not returning until night. There was more complaining and grumbling, but so obscurely expressed as to convey no meaning; and there was more rubbing with the oil. For four days this was kept up, much to the young man's mystification.

He ventured to inquire of the girl Maria, but she cut him short with—

“When Senor Comandante wants his beeznis told he will tell. Is it not?”

And to his chagrin she appeared to be avoiding him thereafter, and he saw her only in glimpses.

Her old grandfather seldom wandered from his cabin door, and then only to feel his way with a staff to the prohibited area of pines. Weymouth and the sailor must have been prospecting at some distance as they did not return. Left thus alone Gilbert was very lonely. He made great friends with Bill Williams and played much with the young bears. The panther kittens and wolf pups seemed to appreciate his attentions, and although the former spat at him yet they tolerated his fondling their heads.

Once Maria came up to the cage as he was petting the kittens and remarked:

“Like a woman, Senor Gilbert. Is it not? They do not show how they feel. They act ver' angry; they feel ver' please.”

And she darted him one of her enigmatical glances.

“They are deceitful little wretches,” he agreed.

“Mos' women are,” she admitted; but he had reference to the kittens.

At the end of the fourth day Old Misery returned with sprightly step and singing the Sioux song of an Elk Dreamer. His eyes were bright and lively.

“One more of them medicine rubs, younker, and I'll be fit to sing a Kiowy travel-song and be hoofing it.”

“We're going away?” eagerly asked Gilbert. “And I can begin to earn my keep?”

“You've earned it with them rubs, and by making friends with my friends. I'm carrying the pipe alone. Sorry, younker, but bimeby the trail will be wide 'nough for both to hoof it together. You have a medicine way with them cats. One of 'em tried to claw hell out of my hand. Let's see your paws.”

Only a few minor scratches showed.

“You have a wakan way with 'em for sartain,” admiringly declared the mountain man. “Them's only love digs. I'm for my blankets. Must start early. If I was back in Vermont I'd be three hours on my way afore waking up. Be back in a few days. Stick close to camp.”

Gilbert was asleep while the mountain man prepared for his journey. The girl Maria appeared, however, and cooked his breakfast in the open. Pausing only to pat Bill Williams' sleepy head, he started down the valley, his back to the new sun.

As he reached the fringe of timber choking the lower end of the valley Maria overtook him and softly cried:

“Senor Comandante goes away without the bear?”

“You knew that, Maria. You see me start off alone. Now what is it?” he quizzed.

“Who is commandante until Senor Comandante comes back?”

He grinned and suggested: “The young Americano.”

“No, no!” she sharply cried. “Not heem. He is what you call a greenhorn.”

“Well, then I'll name Bill Williams.”

“Nombre de Dios! Beel Williams " she gasped. Then coaxingly, “Let Senor Comandante say Maria is comandante until he comes back.”

“Not for a jug of the best Sonora brandy, you young streak of scarlet. And remember; no tricks on the Americano. He is in trouble along of your deviltry. See that the pups and kittens don't git loose. Feed Bill well and take him for a walk each day in the pines. Remember, don't go to giving any orders to the younker. He's in 'nough trouble without having a woman to boss him. Good-by. Be a good girl. I'm coming back in a few days.”

She ran back to her cabin and he resumed his journey. Besides his rifle and knife he carried a Colt's navy revolver, so called to commemorate Commodore E. W. Moore's work in organizing a navy for the State of Texas and in defeating the Mexican fleet in 1843.

Misery pursued a course a few miles to the east of Dutch Flat on Bear River and traveled southwest, making occasional detours to avoid a camp or isolated cabin. Soft-footed as a mountain lion he would glide through a stretch of timber within sound of men's voices without revealing his presence. At Iowa Hill he halted and bought a meal and a drink at a tent. Without Bill Williams for a companion he was not conspicuous, for other men in buckskin were frequently wandering down the west side of the Sierra to watch the moles at work. He decided to call it a day's work when near Kelly's Bar on the North Fork of the American. It was a beautiful rolling country and columned with enormous pines although the ever hungry sawmills were threatening soon to denude the land. Near by were three slab huts. Some distance beyond was a sawmill surrounded by huge stumps.

“Damn fools is worse 'n beavers,” he growled as he strode up to the nearest hut.

A tall, round-shouldered man in snuff-colored trousers and butternut shirt appeared in the doorway and fastened his melancholy gaze on Misery.

“This place oughter be Illinoistown,” commented the mountain man.

The man nodded wearily.

“What you got to eat?” asked Misery.

“Stewed squirrels. Not many.”

“Meaning I ain't welcome and me willing to pay?” demanded the mountain man.

“Meaning that a hellion asleep inside 'lows he's going to eat all of 'em, stranger,” replied the man in a low voice. “I'm thinking of going over and eating with the mill-men.”

Old Misery's spirits lifted. He had disliked making this particular journey. He rejoiced that his medicine had seen fit to provide him with diversion.

“The better man oughter eat stewed squirrels,” he reflected. “And I'm powerful fond of 'em. You're a Pike?”

“Crawly City, nigh Huntersville. 'Low I'll be mizzlin'. That hellion might wake up any minute. And his whisky's all gone. He's going to be master mad, stranger.”

Old Misery grinned contentedly, placed his rifle on the ground and spat on his hands, and advised:

“You trail along to the mill. I'll have a look at this varmint who's fond of the same kind of meat as I be.”

“He'll do you a 'tarnal hurt,” warned the Pike County man, hastily quitting the doorway.

“Mebbe. I've been chawed and clawed by 'bout every thing from the Upper Missouri to Sonora below the line. My medicine tells me you better be going. Innercent folks just looking on sometimes git killed.”

From the hut a ferocious voice roared:

“Hell and alkali! Who took that bottle?”

The Pike County man ran for the mill with the speed of a deer. Old Misery dropped his revolver and knife on the ground and stole to the doorway. He could hear the man moving about as he gave voice to bloodcurdling threats.

Then he came to the door, and instantly the mountain man leaped upon him, yelling:

“Damn you! You'll eat stewed squirrels, will you?”

With a howl of rage the other accepted combat, and in the semi-darkness of the hut they revolved and fought like wildcats.

“I'll eat your heart!” promised the stranger.

Old Misery gave him his knee, stamped on his foot and drove his elbow against the side of his head, and in return received a smash that for a second flattened him against the side of the hut. Almost instantly he was attacking and ducking low as the other loosed a terrific blow. The mountain man seized his opponent around the knees; then by the simple process of throwing himself on his back he shot the fellow over his head and through the doorway. The stranger was below medium height, but of powerful frame. He struck heavily, and before he could get to his feet Old Misery was on his back and hoarsely sounding a war-whoop.

The man ceased struggling and grunted: “You, Misery?”

The raised fist was lowered. Seizing the long hair, the mountain man jerked the man's head to one side and got his first look at the fellow's face.

“Damned if it ain't Tom Tobin! Now we've got to divvy them stewed squirrels.”

Tobin, Irish and hot-tempered, was a veteran mountain man and had found paths with Carson for other men to follow.

His homely, brick-red face twisted into a broad grin as he greeted:

“You'd never fetched me, Misery, if you hadn't been low-down 'nough to bite.”

“Never went for to bite you, Tom,” earnestly replied Old Misery as they clasped hands. “I was just going to let out my Crow yell when you butted me and my mouth slipped. You little runt! I ain't had so much fun since the Cheyennes had me cornered in the North River Mountains. Let's go in and finish them squirrels.”

Tobin cursed him fondly, and after the stew was finished they sat late into the night, telling their experiences. The Pike County man and the mill-men stole up and listened to the stirring recitals. Tobin had been fighting Comanches, Apaches and Kiowas while Old Misery was working at the bay for the Hudson's Bay Company. After Tobin finished an unusually blood-curdling bit of history his friend remained silent for nearly a minute then startled his audience by sounding a war-whoop.

And he confessed:

“I've been missing lots of fun, Tom. I'm homesick for the Rockies. No Injuns worth fighting out here. They eat cat'pillars. Snare rabbits. Make good ranch men if the whites don't kill 'em all off. I've wintered half a dozen lodges, or they'd 'a' starved. Some miners don't think nothing of shooting the poor devils. You've give me an itch to cross over the ridge.”

One of the mill-men spoke up, saying:

“Saw a feller over to Coloma week ago who's crazy to go back East. Seems homesick for it like you be, mister. He's been out here three seasons and has made a little strike.”

“Uh-uh,” grunted Misery, discouragingly. “I ain't hankering to go back East. I was thinking of the Rockies.”

“This feller wants to go 'way back. They call him 'Pretty Soon Jim.'”

“Jim Pipps!” exclaimed Misery, now interested. “Well, if that poor, long, lengthy devil has made a strike I'm glad to hear it. He's 'bout as much good out here as a powder-horn in hell.”

In the morning the friends parted. Tobin was bound for Marysville; he promised to look Misery up after the latter had explained that his camp was in “the foothills of the Sierra.”

The mountain man felt strangely lonesome as he walked to Kelly's Bar. His mind persisted in dwelling on the Rockies and the plains, where animal life was stalwart and dignified, and where there were many red men worthy to follow a great chief. He even gave a thought to Jim Pipps, the strange, eccentric character who was ever talking about “going home, pretty soon.”

Descending to the river, he did not halt at the rocky bar but climbed the opposite slope and hastened on until he sighted a ranch in a majestic grove of pines. The building looked very tiny, and he would have passed it if not for the canvas sign that announced:

THE GRIZZLY-BEAR HOUSE

The name appealed, and he decided to stop and eat. Had his business been less pressing he would have tarried and tried the hunting. The skin of a grizzly, covering the greater part of one side of the dining-room, touched his ambition. He felt the need of much action, as the meeting with Tobin had left him uneasy, restless and dissatisfied. He could see he had been losing precious years while he lived at Yerba Buena and watched it magically spring into San Francisco.

After dinner he went his way, but was tempted to sound his war-cry and run back and challenge all marksmen as the crack of rifles told him the ranch loungers were having a shooting-match.

Fifteen miles over a well-traveled trail were covered with the long, ceaseless stride of his kind, bringing him to Spanish Bar on the Middle Fork of the American. From the top of the high ridge he could trace the thread-like river far below as it wound in and out among the mountains. He worked down the steep slope with the ease of long training, and half-way down met a small band of prospectors toiling upward.

The leader cried: “For lord's sake! Where is the top?”

The bar, half a mile long and several hundred yards wide, had its single street of huts and tents jammed back against the base of the mountains. It would be two hours before the miners would leave their heaps of stone, hot with the reflected rays of the sun, and Old Misery did not care to wait. At a large tent announcing itself to be “The United States Hotel” he traded virgin gold for cooked beef, pickles and bread.

As Old Misery paid a man to take him across the river and was entering the dugout the hotel proprietor ran from his tent, loudly bawling:

“Hi! Old man! Come back here! This gold. Want to talk to you about it.”

“He wants you to come back,” said the ferryman, starting to back paddle.

“Go on, or I'll cut all your ha'r off,” threatened Misery, tapping his long knife.

As the dugout approached the southern bank red shirted miners came running from their diggings, eager to overtake the stranger who carried gold with sharp edges, such as was never laid down by tertiary rivers. Several commenced crossing in a second dugout as the mountain man leaped ashore. But there was none in Spanish Bar who could overtake him once he breasted the long slope and its network of paths. Two men made the endeavor but were fairly winded a third of the way up the ridge when he disappeared over the top.

Having shaken off the curious ones, Old Misery circled around Greenwood and entered the long, winding Greenwood (or Long's) Valley. Cutting into this were many small ravines which extended back into the low hills. When Old Misery last traveled this way men were frantically digging for gold. All those had passed on, and only the holes in the dry creek and the side ravines testified to their early efforts. There were cabins scattered along the twisting creek bed, but none was occupied, and only the chatter of squirrels and the scolding of blue-jays were to be heard.

“A man didn't oughter be crowded in here with so many lodges to choose from,” he mused aloud as he halted and proceeded to eat his supper. “Wish Tom Tobin was here. Said I bit him! The derned, lying little cuss! In a minute more he'd lost an ear.”

He had planned to camp there beside one of the empty cabins, but now that dusk was trailing around the rocky bends his memory quickened and the place lost its appeal. He recalled the tragic occurrence at Dry Diggings, nine miles from Coloma, back in January of 1849. Five men had tried to rob the gambler Lopez but were captured almost on the spot. Three of them were hanged—Garcia, Bissi and Manuel. And Dry Diggings promptly came to be known as “Hangtown” because of this first sample of rude justice bestowed on rogues in California. Hangtown the place would always be to Old Misery although now wearing the more euphonious name of Placerville.

What connected the early lynching with the valley, however, was the story of another of the five robbers, who was whipped and banished, and whose career was never finished in any printed annals. The story went that he was pursued and overtaken in this valley by a small band of men and hanged to a pine by the side of the cabin on Misery's left. Only the cabin had not stood there when the miserable victim of unglutted vengeance was executed. Old-timers in camp under moaning pines had told Misery of the dead robber's spirit wandering about the valley, wearing the white cloth the executioners from some whim had tied over his head. And Old Misery believed in ghosts as firmly as any of the Indian tribes he had lived with or had fought against.

“Comfort,” he told his rifle, “we can git along good with anything you can see to shoot, but if that dead cuss is still wandering round these parts we ain't carrying any pipe against him. We'll jog along a spell farther to where there ain't no bones to cover.”

He decided to push through to Coloma, only a few miles distant, although his preference was for a bed in the open. As it was he did not enter the town, but spread his blankets a short distance out.

Coloma revealed few symptoms of being a busy mining-center, although it was here that gold was first dis covered to light the fires of greed throughout the world. After the first rush in 1848 the diggings had not proved exceptionally good. The houses scattered along the foot of the mountain were neat and painted and suggested homes of an agricultural community; for it was an old town with five years of history behind it.

Old Misery went to a hotel and while eating breakfast heard much loud laughing from the adjoining barroom. Finishing his meal he stepped into the bar to learn the cause of the merriment. Half a dozen men appeared to be making sport of a tall, thin man whose long face was both melancholy and wistful. His garments looked as if he had picked them up from mining-camp dumps. He carried no weapons.

“Now, Pipps, you had your chance,” a man was saying as Old Misery stepped inside the door; “you had your chance. You found a three-thousand-dollar pocket, and instead of going back home you gambled it away. Here you are, wanting a drink and lacking the price.”

“But I spent a tolerable lot of the dust over this bar,” countered Pipps. “As for gambling, I never do, nor did. Last thing I remember is a feller saying, 'Derned if he ain't lost it all.' Then I woke up this morning dry and nothing in my pockets.”

A shout of amusement greeted this.

The spokesman continued:

“Your credit went with your money. If you'll solemnly promise to work for me in the store ten hours to-day I'll buy you a drink and pay you five dollars to-night.”

“I'd like to work for you, Mr. Stacy, if I could afford to; but I'm in a hustle to get back in the hills and find another pocket. Let me find it and I'll be going home pretty soon.”

This assertion, spoken with great earnestness, appealed to the idlers as being rich with humor, and they laughed much.

“He can't afford to work for Mr. Stacy,” chuckled the bartender. “Working in a store a whole day might poison him.”

More bantering followed, the victim fumbling at his thin beard and glancing wistfully from face to face.

The storekeeper continued:

“All I asked was for you to promise. If you can't do that much you can't drink. That right, boys?”

The group heartily approved.

Pipps sighed and turned to leave the room, apologizing:

“I don't want to 'pear perked up, but if I promised I'd have to bide by it.”

“And that's a hell of a lot more'n lots of folks in this burying-ground would do,” spoke up the raucous voice of the mountain man as he blocked Pipps' path.

Before an angry reply could be made from any of the onlookers Old Misery had led Pipps back to the bar and had laid down a small piece of gold and was ordering:

“A bottle of whisky if you've got time to spare from funning to wait on me.”

“Land sakes alive if it ain't Old Misery!” gasped Pipps.

“Who'n hell be you?” demanded the bartender, objecting to having trade interrupt the morning's sport.

A buckskin-clad arm shot across the bar, and a strong hand gripped the drink-server's well oiled topknot, and the mountain man was explaining:

“I'm the man who ain't took a sculp for so long that my knife needs limbering up.”

“Back up, Jack. You're new here or you'd know.”

Then to the mountain man:

“You're Old Misery from up Yuba River way?”

“I be,” complacently admitted the mountain man, releasing his prisoner.

The latter hastily pushed forward a bottle.

Old Misery filled his glass and told Pipps:

“Pretty Soon, have a snort or two. What's the talk 'bout your frittering away your dust gambling?”

“But I never gambled, Misery,” eagerly insisted Pretty Soon Jim Pipps as he gulped down a tall drink. “Some one said I'd lost it all, and it was gone.”

“Just low-down stealing,” growled Old Misery, casting an ugly glance at the citizens.

“Coloma's an orderly town. We have no stealings here,” insisted the storekeeper.

“Never knew a dead town to do much r'aring and prancing. If you didn't talk I'd think this place was asleep. But Pretty Soon Jim ain't no liar. I believe him. Some low-down skunk robbed him while he was fool-drunk.”

He glared belligerently around for a few moments, then asked Pipps:

“What'll you do next?”

Pipps took another drink, dubious as to the elasticity of the mountain man's hospitality, and explained:

“Got to find another pocket. I was all ready to go back home. Now I'll have to wait another season. It's cruel hard, too.”

Some one snickered.

Old Misery encouraged:

“Don't you mind 'em, Pretty Soon. If they'd lost a ounce of dust they'd be bleating so's one could hear it in Stockton. Best thing you can do is to work for day wages and go home next spring.”

Warmed by the liquor, Pretty Soon Jim straightened his long figure and loudly asserted his intention to remain a free man. He would return to prospecting and make another strike. Let him but uncover another pocket and Joaquin Murieta himself couldn't take it from him.

The bartender hoarsely broke in:

“Leave out threats against Murieta when you're in here. We don't want to be shot up, or burned out along of your fool talk.”

“Talk 'bout him all you want to,” said Old Misery. “You're a better man then he is, Pretty Soon. What you git you come by honest, and you keep your word.”

The bartender subsided.

Pretty Soon Jim, stiffened with artificial assurance, clutched the bottle tightly and boldly met the gaze of the citizens and loudly harangued: “Three's a lucky number. Yes, siree! And this is my third year in this forsaken place. When the season opened I felt it in my blood that pretty soon I was going home. Yes, sir! Then I struck that pocket. Some one robbed me. I don't gamble. It don't matter; I'll uncover another while my luck's high. I ain't no man's slave. I've fared lean at times, but I've worked only for myself since landing here.”

“He feels whisky in his veins,” spoke up one of the citizens.

“S'pose all of you feel some of it in yours and close your yap,” suggested Old Misery, and he tossed another nugget on the bar.

As the men advanced to accept the curt invitation Stacy with quickening gaze took the gold from the bartender's hand and examined it closely. Slowly his face became flushed. He attempted to pass back the gold before his companions could observe it, but they were too quick for him. Crowding about him each in turn stared at it, and then directed a wolfish glance at the mountain man.

“Ledge! Richer'n spatter!” one huskily whispered.

“Mr. Misery, where'd you get this?” gently asked the storekeeper.

The mountain man grinned at the change in their demeanor. The bartender set out a bottle before each customer and then examined the nugget and wished he possessed some knowledge of mining, and wondered how he could profit by the queer old man's discovery.

“Got it a long ways from here,” explained Misery. “No one knows the spot 'cept me and a certain old bald eagle. Now, Pretty Soon, no more drinks on a' empty stomach. You go in and eat a big lot of meat. I'll see you some time to-day.”

To the bartender he directed: “All he wants to eat but no more liquor till afternoon. I'm paying.”

Pretty Soon smiled amiably and made for the dining-room.

“Yes, sir.”

“He can come over to the store and eat dinner with me,” eagerly offered the storekeeper. “I'll sort of keep an eye on him so's he won't get blind drunk. Any friend of yours, Mr. Misery—”

“He ain't got guts 'nough to be a friend even to hisself,” broke in the mountain man, scowling at the complacent, weak face of the smiling Pipps. “But he's a harmless critter. Robbing him is as bad as robbing a baby. It's too bad that when a parcel of digger-and-root Injuns want to have fun with somebody they can't pick out a man that'll kick back.

“Now, me: I'd love to be playful. Just to show I like to be friendly and have some fun I'll bet a pound of this kind of gold chunks I'm carrying that the whole tribe of you can't put me out of this room. And we'll all heave our weepins into the corner afore starting the game.” And his gaze was warm and beaming as he made the offer.

Heads were shaken, and the half-circle grew wider. The storekeeper declared that Coloma prized his infrequent visits too highly to indulge in rough sport that might cause an injury.

“But I'd be gentle,” pleaded Misery, reaching for the bottle, then pushing it away.

The men retreated one by one through the doorway, not necessarily in fear but to make preparations for a hurried journey once the mountain man left the town. Each man planned to trail Old Misery, and each distrusted the others.

Stacy was the last to go; and, having Old Misery to himself, he frankly offered:

“Let me put up a lot of money to develop that ledge, Mr. Misery. I've got the ready cash at the store. Those other fellows have only their picks and shovels. We'll need a mill. I can pay for it. You'll want some one to manage it, dividing the profits equal. I'm a business man. I can satisfy you I'm honest.”

“I'll think it over,” Old Misery gravely told him. “While I'm doing that you just remember Pretty Soon Jim here is a friend of mine. If I take any one with me I probably will ask Jim to name the man, me not being so well acquainted round these parts as he is.”

“I am his friend and proud to be,” warmly cried the storekeeper. “This is no place for him to pass the day in.”

“What's the matter with this place?” fiercely demanded the bartender.

“He'd drink too much rum; that's the matter with it. He must come to my store. If you don't call for him this afternoon he must come to my home to-night.”

“That talk sounds all right. I'll find him at your store. Now I'll look round a bit and git the kinks out my legs,” said Old Misery.

His strolling took him to the outskirts of the town on the north side, where he paused and talked briefly with several citizens. When last seen he was making north from the town. Those who spied on him feared he had gone for good and roundly cursed their negligence in not being ready to trail him. But at dusk he returned, only now he was unobserved as the main street was singularly deserted. Before seeking Pretty Soon Jim at Stacy's store he decided he would refresh himself at the hotel bar. To his surprise the barroom was so crowded with citizens that he could not at first get beyond the doorway. Despite this unusual gathering there was no talking. The bartender leaned limply against the end of the bar, his eyes staring toward the end of the room. All eyes were turned in that direction.

Old Misery tugged a man's arm and asked: “What's the trouble?”

“Murder!” exclaimed the man without shifting his gaze from the lower end of the bar.

The mountain man now observed the crowd was intent on that end of the room, and he knew the victim was there on the floor.

Suddenly another head appeared in the little opening, and the man was facing the silent spectators and loudly saying:

“He's dead. Barely managed to whisper two words—”

“The name, doctor! The name!” cried a man.

Others caught up the cry, the lust for vengeance shattering the death-like quiet of the place.

The doctor lifted a hand for silence and explained:

“His two words were 'six bags.' He doubtless referred to what the murderer stole. He was knifed three times from behind. Probably while kneeling to put away his gold in the strong box. It's quite remarkable that he managed to walk over here.”

“Pipps done for him!" some one yelled. “He was at the store 'most all day. He's too drunk to git far!”

“We'll git him and hang him front the store!' cried another.

Then a babel of yells and imprecations made talk impossible. The doctor forced his way toward the door; the crowding, surging throng carried Old Misery close to the upper end of the bar, where the bartender, wild of eye, was leaning.

“Who's killed?” Old Misery demanded.

The bartender ran his tongue over his lips and managed to reply: “Stacy, the storekeeper.”

“Knifed and robbed and left for dead!” howled an excited citizen standing beside the mountain man. “Just at supper time. Not more'n half a hour ago at the most.”

“There's the trail of blood where he managed to walk over here to find some of us boys,” gasped another man, trembling and sick because of the fearful tragedy.

“That drunken Pretty Soon Jim Pipps done for him,” hoarsely added the bartender. “We'll catch him before morning and string him up.”

“Pretty Soon Jim ain't got guts 'nough to kill a rabbit,” cried Old Misery. “What's to show he done it?”

The doctor had now returned and was working his way to the bar.

“There's no doubt about his doing it, old man,” he sternly replied. “He had the chance and the motive. He hasn't sand enough to face a man and rob him. But he was crazy to go home. Ordinarily as harmless as a child, he was seized with a homicidal mania when he beheld Stacy kneeling, back to him, and in the act of locking up six bags of gold. He saw a knife. He grabbed it up and struck three times! I've no doubt he acted before he thought about the consequences. For the moment he was a mad man—”

“He'll stretch just the same!” roared one of the infuriated men.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and quietly replied:

“That's for you folks to decide. We have no institutions here for caring for the criminally insane. But let's be orderly, even in arranging a hanging. The man is too well-known to escape. He's too drunk to get very far. Stacy's dead there in the corner. Let's spend a few minutes fitting the evidence together.”

“Pretty Soon was bu'sted. Lost three thousand in dust last night. That is, lost what he didn't blow in at this bar,” spoke up the bartender.

“Every one knows how crazy he's been for two seasons to go back home. That hankering got him his name,” eagerly supplied another.

“And Stacy took him there this morning. Kept him to dinner. Let him sleep on a pile of blankets this afternoon. I was in there about three o'clock and heard him snoring.”

“I told you not to sell him no more liquor,” Old Misery shot at the bartender.

“And I didn't. He went over to the store right after breakfast,” earnestly assured the bartender.

“You can take it for a fact Stacy didn't let him have any drinks,” continued Old Misery. “He was too keen to share in on a rich ledge of mine to do anything to fret me. So we have Pretty Soon staying there to dinner and sleeping off what rum he had afore breakfast. Who seen him after three o'clock in the afternoon?”

It transpired that none remembered seeing him; that none present was in the store after that hour.

But one man triumphantly reminded:

“Still he's cleared out, and Stacy's bled to death in this room. And the six bags of gold is missing.”

“It looks like Pretty Soon Jim, old man, and no one else,” calmly said the doctor.

“It looks!” scoffed the mountain man. “I've seen a burnt sugar-pine stump look so 'zactly like a grizzly that I emptied Solid Comfort into it. Here's one thing in Pretty Soon Jim's favor; he wouldn't lie. He wouldn't make a promise he didn't believe he'd keep. This morning he wouldn't say he'd do a day's work for a snort of whisky—and he did want that drink mortal bad. He promised to meet me at the store.”

“Granting all that,” quietly retorted the doctor, “the fact remains that when a man becomes unbalanced, if only for a minute, he does things he would never do when himself. It's doing the things you'd never ordinarily dream of doing, and couldn't be hired to do, that marks the crazy man. If no man ever did the undreamed of thing there would be no one mentally unbalanced.

“I honestly believe the fellow was simple and thoroughly harmless until his eagerness to go back East destroyed his balance long enough to permit him to do this horrible crime. I wouldn't be surprised if this moment he's near here; that he realizes what he's done, and is so overcome he hasn't a thought of trying to escape.”

“By God! He'll move faster'n lightning and to the Atlantic Ocean but what we git him!” came an explosive voice from the middle of the infuriated crowd.

And angry glances were cast at the mountain man.

The latter calmly insisted:

“All I want is to git at the truth. I'd planned to help the poor cuss. I had intended to take him away and fix it so's he could go back East where he belongs. But the storekeeper must 'a' said something to some one. He had strength 'nough to walk here. Didn't he see nobody while crossing the street to speak to? Didn't he say anything after he got here? Didn't he name Pretty Soon Jim?”

“The bartender was alone when he stumbled in. He says Stacy never said a word but just groaned and fell down. Jack didn't know what was the matter with him at first and tried to help him. Then he ran to the street and yelled for the boys. It was supper time and it happened every one was off the street. It was growing dark and no one, that we can find, saw him cross the street. That's the way of it, Jack?”

The bartender nodded, and in a shaky voice explained for Old Misery's benefit:

“Tried to brace him up with a drink. Didn't know what's the matter with him till I got my hands all bloody. Then I see he'd been cut. Then I ran out and hollered.”

Old Misery slowly conceded:

“If Pretty Soon Jim done this he oughter be strung up even if he's crazy. We have no places for caring for heyoka men out here. And if he'd kill once when crazy he might kill again. But I've seen him off 'n' on for more'n two seasons now, and he never showed as much spunk as a month-old cub bear. And none of you, who see him often, ever see him have any war-dreams while drunk. Liquor only made him feel grand and noble and richer'n all git-out. But if he done this thing he ain't no fit man to go back home.

“If he done this thing I must help hang him; for if it hadn't been for me he'd never gone to the store to wait all day. Too bad Stacy didn't talk any to you when you took him the drink.” This to the bartender. “Still, Pretty Soon won't lie. He'll tell us he did it if he did do it. It's mighty tough to have to help hang a man you started out to help.”

He reached out to take up a glass of liquor on the bar.

“Don't,” hurriedly restrained the man at his elbow. “That's the drink Jack tried to give poor Stacy.”

The mountain man snatched his hand back as if escaping a poisonous serpent; and he stared with dilated eyes at the glass as if fascinated.

“Tried to git him to swaller it, thinking he'd had a fit, or something,” hoarsely repeated the bartender. “He just lay there and groaned, and I set the glass down and tried to prop him up. That's when I got blood on my hands and knew something was wrong.”

Old Misery leaned against the bar, then quickly seized the man by his top-knot. Up shot the bartender's hands to break the grip, and instantly the mountain man had him by the wrists.

“What'n hell you up to now, old man?” cried the doctor.

“You wait a minute. I ain't doing any harm to nobody,” slowly warned Old Misery, without removing his gaze from the bartender's face. Then he leaned forward and whispered:

“Bullet or rope. Open winder behind you.”

Still gripping the terrified man's wrists, he told the excited, surging crowd:

“His hands are still red. Both of 'em. He's rubbed 'em on a towel, but he couldn't git it off.”

“We all know that, old man. Release him,” warned the doctor.

“I'm used to reading signs,” continued the mountain man. “He ain't washed his hands. He ain't emptied or washed the glass. But why did he bother to fetch the drink back to the bar when a man's dying, and how could he do it without color showing on the glass? It's clean as any glass in the bar. This feller lies when he says he tried to give Stacy a drink. Why did he lie? If he didn't use up any time trying to give the man a drink why wasn't he out on the street yelling for help? Yet his hands is bloody and he poured out this drink. He either poured it afore reddening his hands, or else there's a blood-marked bottle back of that bar now.”

The crowd was now as quiet as the dead man. All eyes were focused on the old mountain man and his terrified prisoner.

Looking straight at the bartender, Old Misery continued:

“In this room this morning Stacy told me he had ready money at his store, lots of it; and that he wanted to buy into a mine I'd found up north. No one else was here but this drink-slinger. He heard it. Pretty Soon Jim was in t'other room, eating his breakfast. How do you know this feller didn't slip across the street and do for Stacy while 'twas gitting dark and you was all to supper? And why couldn't this feller git back here with the dust in his apron without being seen? Stacy crossed the street without being seen. I don't say it's so, but my idee is to look behind that bar and search this lodge from top to bottom afore we go gunning for Pretty Soon Jim Pipps.

“We can always find Pretty Soon; he's simple's a child. Now if this feller knifed Stacy and took the gold he left Stacy for dead. He got back here and poured himself a stiff snort of whisky without touching the glass, and just then Stacy staggers in. The storekeeper comes to git his gold back, perhaps thinking he'd find men here to who he could name his murderer. But he 'n' the murderer are alone. It's a question of minutes afore he goes over the divide. It took most of his strength to git here.

“This feller, if he's guilty, wanted Stacy dead afore any one come in. He waited till he believed Stacy was breathing his last. He told 'bout the liquor to fill in the time afore sounding the alarm. If he could 'a' been sure no one saw Stacy cross the street he'd never said anything about trying to give Stacy a drink. Now let's take a peek behind the bar.”

And he released the man's wrists and vaulted over the bar and ducked below it. Almost at once his hand set a bottle, marked with dark finger-prints, on the bar. With a scream the bartender leaped through the window. A confusion of oaths and yells filled the room; and from behind the bar came a bag marked “Stacy,” and another and another, until six had been exhumed from the litter on the floor. With the appearance of the first bag the men were crowding and jamming at the doorway, trying to take up the pursuit. With the recovery of the last bag the mountain man wheeled to the window, and, still kneeling, rested the long navy revolver across the sill.

The white shirt of the bartender showed vaguely as the man ran for the river. The mob erupted through the congested door and into the street, yelling and whooping like mad men. And the mountain man fired once and slowly got to his feet and slowly proceeded to arrange the stolen bags on the bar alongside the blood-stained bottle and the spotless glass.

Only the doctor had remained in the room. He said nothing until after he had gone back of the bar and had found a towel. There were dark marks on it. He examined them critically, and similar marks on the bags and on the bottle.

Then he announced:

“Same finger prints on the bags and the bottle. Towel's blurred. They'll hang him even if his running away doesn't.”

“They'll never hang him, poor feller!” muttered Old Misery. “If it wa'n't for some nuggets I paid in here Stacy would 'a' never told 'bout his dust, and the drink-slinger never'd heard him and then give away to a sudden notion to steal and kill.”

“But they will hang him!” cried the doctor. “Hark! There! they've caught him now! They'll have him back here and strung up inside of ten minutes!”

The mountain man shook his head.

“No. They'll never hang him. I give him his choice of a rope or a bullet. He didn't want to choke to death.” And it was a dead man the men brought back with them.

CHAPTER VI

A NEW MEDICINE

OLD MISERY received a vote of thanks for his deadly marksmanship and was warmly urged to remain in town. But the tragedy weighed on him, and he stole away before the citizens missed him. He had crossed the river and climbed the stiff hill and had traveled some miles down winding Greenwood Valley be fore he remembered his dislike for the place. However, the bartender's ghost would not annoy him as it would hover around the hotel and Stacy's store.

His long walk that day beyond Coloma had tired him, he was now discovering as he depended upon his moccasined feet to keep the trail. He had intended to press on until he reached the little town of Greenwood, but surrendered to fatigue when half-way down the valley and turned into the timber back of a cabin and made his bed on the pine needles.

Ghosts or no ghosts he would sleep, he told himself; and, lulled by the crooning night breeze, he was soon unconscious. But there was a sentinel in his wary brain which never slept; and when he awoke he was sitting up, his hand on his rifle. He could discover nothing to cause alarm, and yet he knew it was time for him to be on guard against something. He dropped back and rested his head on the ground, and caught it—a faint thudety, thud of several horses coming at a hand gallop. Much relieved that he was to witness no manifestations of the supernatural, he threw aside his blankets and waited curiously.

The horsemen were riding easily and with no semblance of haste. They were coming from Coloma way and were neither pursuing nor being pursued. With Stacy's slayer dead there was no reason for a posse to be riding down the lonely valley at night; and honest wayfarers preferred the day. As the measured beat of hoofs sounded nearer Misery decided there were at the least four men in the band. Taking his rifle, he stole to a hiding-place in some bushes close beside the cabin. Now he caught the murmur of voices, and instead of keeping up their pace the riders were slowing down to a walk. There was an aroma of burning tobacco. Misery prepared to fall back, thinking they might dismount and go into camp.

The newcomers' speech became audible, and he pricked his ears on hearing them talking in Spanish.

“Tomas said it was this cabin?” asked a voice as the dark blurs drew up opposite the empty shack.

“He swore it as he was drawing his last breath,” a man replied. “The Tiger himself put the question. It would be a very brave caballero who would try to deceive the Mountain Tiger even if hiding in hell.”

“Then dismount and search. We must be back in the hills before morning,” commanded the leader.

Old Misery was keenly interested. Obviously Joaquin Murieta, of the black and yellow serape and the belt of four heavy dragoon revolvers, had sent some of his men to recover something from this cabin.

The first man afoot found pine branches and lighted them for torches, and by the smoky light Misery saw four men on the ground and a fifth in the saddle. All were dressed in the barbaric finery of Old Mexico, their short coats being thickly decorated with gold or silver braid, from under which flowed the ends of red sashes, and there was much silver on the outside of each flaring trousers leg.

None was masked, but all were strangers to the mountain man. His interest was lively but impersonal. He was much like a child watching a game. Once on a time he had unwittingly saved Joaquin's life; and recently he had killed Scar Faced Luis, one of the most deadly members of the wild, merciless band.

Then he felt his white hair stirring, and an icy chill ran up and down his spine. For something had moved inside the cabin; and this was the spot where the fourth of the Lopez robbers had been hanged with the white cloth over his head. The sound was not such as a squirrel, or other small animal, would make, but a heavy, shuffling sound. He was surprised that none of the bandits had noted it.

The leader was asking:

“And Tomas surely said it was under the big pine?”

“His last words. Under the big pine where they hung the man from Hangtown. Between two roots on the side facing the cabin. We will dig.”

Again that peculiar, dragging, shuffling sound, and the mountain man's nerves tightened. Only the thickness of the log wall was between him and It. Had it not been for the bandits to share in the situation, he would have stolen away, but their presence emboldened him to remain. The four men gathered at the foot of the big pine, three of them holding torches, the fourth armed with a pick. The work of digging commenced, the thud of the picking sounding very loud and distinct. Then the pick was cast aside, and the man was on his knees, exclaiming in triumph as he pawed out the loose dirt and exposed a stout bag of buckskin.

“Well done! Soon done!” cried the mounted leader.

“Here they are all in a nest. This is the last, four in all,” cried the man as he passed up the bags for his companions to take.

Like an echo sounded a hoarse, strangled cry in Old Misery's ears such as a man might make who was choking to death.

With sharp yelps of alarm the four men fell back from the tree, each carrying a bag, and made for their horses. The leader pulled a dragoon revolver from his sash and glared about in the fitful light afforded by the torches burning on the ground.

“It's in the cabin!” cried one of the men.

The cry was repeated, and the door of the cabin swung in with many protesting squeaks. A fantastic figure lurched out, clawing at his neck and making hoarse, choked sounds. The body was white, the arms were white, and where there should have been a head was a smear of white.

The bandits cried out in fear.

One on foot screamed, “Son of the Fiend" and hurled a blazing brand at the weird shape. “The man who was hung with the cloth on his head!”

And he fairly hurled himself on his horse and galloped back toward Coloma.

The leader shouted an excited blasphemy and fired point-blank at the figure, now groping its way toward the remaining men and still choking and clawing at the white throat.

“A dead man! Pity us and save us!” yelled the leader, wheeling his horse and racing off into the darkness.

The others streamed after him. Old Misery, crouching on his heels, tried to recall a strong ghost-medicine.

“You darned fools better let me alone!” warned the ghost. “Next man that tries any tricks'll be sorry.”

“What the hell be you anyway?” asked Old Misery in a quavering voice and still keeping concealed behind a tree.

The figure picked up a torch and came toward the mountain man.

“Halt! Ghost or devil, I'll plug you if you come another step!”

“Why can't you get out of here and leave me be? You've played your prank; now be off,” complained the ghost, and a fit of coughing held him speechless for a few moments.

Then he was adding: “It's bad enough to fall into the flour and well nigh fill my lungs with the cussed stuff without having you fellers hooting round to pester me.”

The twitching at the roots of Old Misery's hair ceased. Stepping from his hiding-place, he approached the spectral figure, snatched the torch from the limp hand and swung it around until it burst into radiant flames.

After a second scrutiny he exclaimed:

“Cuss all cats if you ain't Pretty Soon Jim' And if you ain't a mess! But you're mighty wakan to be alive. That feller shot at you p'int-blank. I reckoned you was just heyoka, but you must be wakan witshasha.”

“It's you, Misery. I can't see good yet, along of the flour in my eyes; but I know your voice. Why did they want to chase me and try their games on me for? That bartender, Jack, is back of it, I'll warrant.”

“No. He ain't back of it,” soberly corrected Old Misery. “The men were greasers, come to dig up something they'd hid in the ground. They belong to Joaquin's band.”

With a squawk of terror Pretty Soon Jim started to run to the cabin, but tripped and fell headlong.

As he scrambled to his feet he cried:

“They'll be back! They're desperate, cruel men!”

“They're scared as hell just about this time. Drop that rock. Solid Comfort here can stand off a dozen of 'em.”

But it was not a rock that Pretty Soon was holding in his hand.

He explained: “I hit it with my foot and fell.”

Old Misery lowered the torch and beheld one of the bags the bandits had taken from the ground at the foot of the big pine.

“Hell 'n' sal'ratus powders!” gasped the mountain man admiringly. “Now I know you're wakan witshasha! First you dodge a bullet at fifteen feet; then you stub your toe against a bag of gold!”

“Gold? Good lord! This is my third season of trying to find enough to pay my way back East! Let's have a peek at it. I was lucky at Coloma; then the bartender told me I'd lost, and took my dust away.”

“No time to look at it now. Fetch your blankets and come with me. They'll miss that bag. That changes things. Even ghosts are better to face than Murieta when he's riled. He's expecting four bags. They found four. They won't dare go back and tell any ghost story. They've got to git that fourth bag. You carry it all the time seeing it's yours, and after we dig deep into the woods we'll have a powwow.”

Pretty Soon quickly secured his blankets and followed Old Misery up the slope of the valley and into the pines.

He muttered under his breath:

“They shan't find us! They shan't take it from me!”

“A blind buf'ler could foller the flour trail you're leaving. We must clear out afore daylight,” growled Misery.

“Before daylight I'll be on my way to the bay to buy a ticket home,” declared Pretty Soon. “This bag is hefty. No one shall have it!”

“You're going with me to Nevada City and turn it into the 'spress office and find it waiting for you when you git home, you crazy loon,” the mountain man informed him.

“Now we'll squat, and you'll answer a few questions afore we turn in. Wish that little runt of a Tom Tobin was here.”

“I'll tell you anything, Misery. I ain't forgetting that drink you bought me. That bartender took my dust. I didn't dare let on I remembered it, or he might 'a' stuck a knife into me. But I never gambled. He called me into a room up-stairs. There was a table and a pack of cards. He just yanked the bag away and said, 'You lost.'”

“Never mind the bartender. No good talking about him,” uneasily interrupted Old Misery. “He's the big loser up to now. Let it go at that. But you broke your promise, Pretty Soon. Never believed you'd do it. You said you'd meet me at Stacy's store.”

“Well, I declare” exclaimed Pretty Soon. “But you sent the bartender to the store with word for me to come here and wait for you. I was to pack along a bag of flour and some other fixings. And I done it. You was to pay him for the grub before leaving Coloma to over take me.”

“Heyoka man, after all,” sighed Misery. “Just like a child. What time did you see the bartender?”

“He came over right after dinner when Stacy was at the express office and I was tending store alone. Told me you said to start about four o'clock and to say nothing about my reasons for going to anybody. Then he give me the money to pay for the grub. Said you would settle with him.”

“That part of it's right,” mumbled the mountain man.

“There! You know all about it. I ought to ask you questions. Maybe I'm unjust toward Jack. He did give me a bottle to take with me; but he made me promise not to open it till I got here. And I kept my word. But that promise didn't hold when it come to drinking from a bottle I found in the store, and it must have been lots later'n four o'clock when I woke up on the blankets. I was alone. Stacy was opening some express out back. So I just picked up a bag of flour and some fixings and sneaked off. How much gold in that bag, you s'pose?”

Old Misery weighed it in his hands and replied:

“Twenty-five hundred at a guess if it's in clean nuggets. But it don't feel like nuggets.”

He untied the buckskin thong and dipped in his fingers.

“Feels like the fifty-dollar slugs that Moffat at Frisco puts out. They're yours. It's stuff that a feller named Tomas stole and hid without sharing with the gang. Told 'bout it when he was dying. Belongs to you. Can't prove ownership of coins when so much is being stolen out here. Time we was sleeping.”

“I can't sleep for feeling so happy. All I can think of is that ticket home. I'll go by the way of the Isthmus. Fast steamers. Think of it! Only twenty-five days after leaving the bay and I'll be back East!”

His inability to compose his thoughts and sleep kept the mountain man awake some time, listening to a recital of disappointments and hardships and indignities.

Until he uncovered the pocket below Coloma he never had possessed more than enough gold to relieve his immediate wants. This night he was vindicating himself; he had never worked for any man except Jim Pipps. This bag of gold was the result of steadfastly refusing to work for wages. Finally his talk became incoherent mumbling, and the two slept.

The clock in Old Misery's head woke him up an hour before sunrise. He aroused his companion and dusted the flour from him the best he could and permitted a hurried examination of the bag. It contained fifty-four of Moffat's fifty-dollar slugs.

“'Nough to get me home and buy a good farm!” ecstatically observed Pretty Soon.

Without waiting to eat breakfast the mountain man led the way to the mouth of the valley and around the dozen cabins, two stores, and hotel of Greenwood. Once beyond the town and noticing his companion was suffering severely from yesterday's liquor, Old Misery had him lie down in a juniper thicket. Taking the bag for safe-keeping, he returned to the town and bought meat and bread. News of the Coloma tragedy arrived, brought by a horseman, while he was completing his purchases.

Hastening back to the thicket, he found Pretty Soon still sleeping. Arousing him, he set out the food and urged the need of immediate departure.

Had he been traveling alone he would have worried none; but Pretty Soon Jim, as awkward to protect as he was conspicuous in appearance, was more of an encumbrance than a drove of cattle. Did he get at whisky at any camp he would be dangerously garrulous. And the men at Spanish Bar would be remembering the old man who had bought food with ledge gold. They would endeavor to detain him, at least to trail him. Old Misery arrived at two conclusions when he halted on the summit of the range overlooking the bar: he and his companion must keep ahead of the Coloma news, and he must avoid being recognized at the camp far below.

“Ever make this crossing afore?” he asked, pointing to the tents and huts at their feet.

“Late last season I come down this way to winter around Coloma.”

“Listen. Here's two trade-dollars. Go down to the river and be set across. Without stopping to talk with any one you climb up t'other side and strike the trail to the Grizzly Bear House.”

“I know the path,” proudly broke in Pretty Soon. “Guess there's mighty few I don't know.”

“Foller it. If I don't j'in you on the way I'll pick you up at the house. I'll carry the bag.”

“But why quit me?”

“We're being trailed by Old Man Trouble. My medicine tells me to make a wet crossing above the bar. With this bag and Solid Comfort it won't be any joke. You're not to take a drink till I overhaul you and give you the word.”

“I promise,” sighed Pretty Soon. “But it would be tough sledding if you never showed up.”

“Sorter tough on me, too,” grunted Old Misery. “Go ahead. You're bu'st. Just drifting round from camp to camp.”

And he turned up the crest of the ridge as Pretty Soon plunged down the long steep slope.

Reaching a point where rocks showed in the channel above a narrow bend, the mountain man worked his way down over a faint trail. The path had been used by aborigines, but never by miners, Misery decided. Gaining the edge of the river, he decided he could cross by leaping from rock to rock if it were not for an opening in midchannel. Hiding his rifle and the bag, he searched the shore until he found a section of a young pine.

Then followed the tedious work of resting it on two rocks, leaping the opening and then advancing the pine again to the next rock. He repeated this maneuver, falling into the water only once, until he managed to push the trunk over the gap in mid-stream. Returning to the shore, he took his rifle in one hand and the bag in the other and nimbly sprang from rock to rock to his rude bridge. Without a pause he made the crossing.

“Hau!” he exclaimed as he left the bridge and commenced bounding over the last half of his perilous journey.

Once started, he needs must keep moving; and his momentum was considerable as he neared the north bank. He discovered he had been deceived as to the distance between the last foot-hold and the shore. There could be no hesitating now, however, so he swung his arm and hurled the bag ahead and leaped as far as possible.

He landed in the water up to his waist and quickly scrambled ashore. Recovering the bag, he found a faint trail leading to the heights. An hour later he stepped from behind a tree and fell in beside Pretty Soon Jim, much to the latter's astonishment.

“Now you tote this damn stuff for a while,” were Misery's first words. “Come near losing Solid Comfort along of my foolishness. We'll keep clear of the Grizzly Bear House and strike for Kelly's Bar. We must keep going till we reach Illinoistown. Then I allow we'll be all right.”

The journey to Kelly's Bar was without incident, although they were thrilled at sight of a reckless horseman riding his mount down to the river. He made the descent in zigzag plunges, the intelligent animal pivoting and shifting his course when his momentum threatened to hurl him hoofs over head.

“Rides like a greaser, but he's 'Merican,” remarked Old Misery as he admired the headlong recklessness of the man.

They had to wait until the dugout had ferried the rider across, the horse being towed behind. When Misery and his companion reached the bar the horseman was half-way up the opposite slope.

“Don't git into any talk here,” warned Old Misery as he led the way by some ragged tents and a few huts, “and keep that bag outer sight.”

“You think we're in danger:” uneasily asked Pretty Soon.

“Mebbe. But once we reach Illinoistown, four miles along the ridge, we can take it easy. I'll try to rig you up a belt, so's you won't have to bother with the bag.”

Pretty Soon groaned and complained much as they ascended the mountain trail but refused Old Misery's offer to carry the bag.

“It's mine,” he panted. “I risked my life for it. 'Most scared to death in getting it. I can still feel that flour in my lungs.”

Old Misery's bearing became more buoyant as they entered the path to Illinoistown. Now he felt he was almost home, his business finished. A day's delay and he would have Pretty Soon Jim off his hands and would be free to return to Grass Hollow.

When they came to the three cabins he led the way to the one where he had met Tom Tobin. The round shouldered Pike County man appeared in the doorway. On recognizing the mountain man his bearing became hostile, yet tempered by a recollection of the old man's ferocity in combat.

“You back ag'in?” he querulously greeted. “I was hoping—”

“No use. My medicine won't let me git killed yet a while,” completed the mountain man. “But I ain't blaming you. This is a free country for wishing. It's them stewed squirrels that fetched me back. They was so prime I must have more. I've talked a heap 'bout 'em. Bimeby folks will be coming from all over the world to eat 'em.”

“That'll be a pretty howd'y-do for me,” bitterly complained the man. “And you two fellers bu'sted a prime stool with your fooling.”

“Always leave a friend as good as I found him,” declared Old Misery, and he fished a nugget from his pocket and tossed it into the ready hand.

The man examined it suspiciously; then thawed out and admitted:

“I've got some squirrels in the kettle. All you two will want. And there's a damper of bread inside somewhere. Think I'll go over and eat with the mill-men so you two can have the place to yourselves. After you git done fighting just see what you've bu'sted and leave what you think the damage's worth in one of my old boots.”

His departure was immediate, and suggested a fear that Old Misery and his companion would fall-to on the spot and enjoy themselves in savage strife.

The cabin was in filthy condition. Old clothes, soggy boots and empty bottles were scattered over the floor. But in the fireplace, opening into a stick-and-mud chimney, bubbled a kettle that gave off a pleasing aroma.

“Faugh!” exclaimed Misery, wrinkling his nose. “I'd like the squirrels more if we'd kept outside. Tom Tobin must 'a' been awful drunk to sleep in here.”

Pretty Soon was less fastidious and lost no time in examining the bottles. All were empty. Misery found some deerskin hanging from a peg and promptly set to work fashioning a belt. He worked rapidly, and with his moccasin awl and threads of sinew sewed two thicknesses together and divided them into pockets.

“Mighty clever,” praised Pretty Soon. “'Most done?”

“I'll have it finished in a minute if my stomick holds out. This place is worse'n the wind from a Injun summer camp,” growled Old Misery.

A step sounded outside the door, and he brushed his work under the bunk and came to his feet.

“Who's at home?” asked a man, standing in the doorway and trying to wink the sun-glare from his eyes.

“'Mericans. Two of 'em. Come in and squat if you can stand the gineral smell.”

The stranger entered and tested the air with his hooked nose and decided: “Smells a bit stronger than my cabin, but not much. I must have come in just ahead of you. Hoss went lame. Had to stop.”

As he spoke his dark eyes darted about the room and rested for a second on the bag at Pretty Soon's feet.

“But you do have something cooking that tickles the appetite,” he added.

He walked toward the bubbling kettle and stubbed his toe against the bag.

“Damn dark in here,” he grumbled.

Old Misery's eyes narrowed. He recognized the stranger as the daring horseman at Kelly's Bar.

His voice was hearty as he cried: “Stewed squirrels, lots of 'em. Bring what fodder you've got out front and we'll have a feast. If you ain't got any, come just the same. 'Mericans oughter share with each other; and you're 'Merican all right.”

“Yes, sir. George York, born in the State of New York. I'll be glad to share some cold meat and bread from my saddle-bags, Mr.—”

“Not any mister. Just Old Misery, the feller Old Man Trouble has been chasing for years. My friend here is Pretty Soon Jim. We're bound for the Yuba.”

“If I was afoot and not in a hurry I'd like to travel along with you,” said York. “Trail's getting unsafe for honest folks. Mill-men tell me there's been three murders within ten miles of here within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Good lord "gasped Pretty Soon. “What be we coming to? A man with property—”

“Never can cover the trail,” broke in Old Misery. “That's one thing to be thankful for: When you ain't got nothing you can't lose nothing.” And he pressed his foot heavily on Pretty Soon's toes.

“The squirrels oughter be done in less'n twenty minutes.”

“Then I'll look at my hoss and be back by that time,” said York.

The moment he passed through the door Old Misery was watching from the window. He saw the stranger make for a corral beyond the third cabin.

Turning about, he commanded:

“Off with that shirt so I can fix this belt round you. I'll have to sew it on.”

Pretty Soon removed his coat and ragged shirt, and the mountain man quickly made the belt fast and proceeded to fill the little pockets with coins.

Finishing, he commanded:

“Don't let on to nobody you're wearing it, or your ha'r'll be in the smoke. I'll keep the bag.”

“Seems to be a lot of secrecy.”

“Mighty good chance for you to git your long throat cut if you don't do as I say. My medicine tells me there's going to be trouble. When I give the word to-night for you to light out for Grass Valley you start without a yip. Reaching the valley, you're to make believe you're bu'sted and almost ready to go to work. You're just Pretty Soon Jim, down on his luck. Toward night you hoof it to Nevada City and go to Kelly's lodging-place. If I don't come along inside of two days you hunt up Mr. Peters, honest gambler, and tell the whole thing. When he knows I sent you he'll git the coins changed into dust. That'll break the money-trail. Then the 'spress office will see it's waiting for you back home. No matter when I say, 'Go,' you scoot.”

“If I'm man enough to find a bag of gold I'm man enough to turn it in to the express office. Seems as if too many folks was mixing up in my business affairs,” retorted Pretty Soon.

“All the four bags held the same kind of stuff,” patiently replied Misery. “Already Murieta's spies along Deer crick have been told to watch out for any one carrying a bag of fifty-dollar slugs. That flour trail back in the valley has been follered. Right now they're probably trailing us to this spot. It's known you left Coloma same day as I did. It's known I was in Greenwood. Most likely I'll be suspected of knowing something 'bout the bag. You've got to promise not to take a single snort of liquor till I show up and give the word. If I don't show up, not till you're on the boat, sailing for home.”

Pretty Soon frowned and scratched his chin. It was no way for a capitalist to behave. Possession of gold called for a jollification. The rôle of a penniless vagabond was abhorrent. If he gave his promise he must keep it; for somewhere alive among all his weaknesses was that one great virtue. As he hesitated, visualizing the tedious stage trip to Sacramento and the beautiful drinking-places along the way, the mountain man drew the edge of his hand across his throat and whispered:

“Within forty-eight hours if you git drunk.”

Knowing that one drink would mean a drunk, Pretty Soon groaned and surrendered.

“Good lord! I ain't as stubborn as that. I promise. Say the word and I'm off.”

Old Misery stuffed the bag inside his shirt and went outside. He saw nothing of York. He wandered aimlessly up the slope and after making sure he was not being watched he cast about for something to put in the bag. The first piece of rock he picked up had one side covered with aborescent coats of manganese. His eyes filled with awe as he gazed on it. He saw the outlines of pine-covered hills, and it resembled the bridge north of Grass Hollow.

“Picter of the ridge to a dot,” he whispered. “If that ain't strong medicine then I never heard of any. If that don't mean I'm bound to make the holler with a whole hide then all medicine is a liar.”

He felt mightily lifted up as he placed it in the bag. His head was high and no thought of an assassin's bullet troubled him as he returned to the cabin and placed the bag on the floor and half under the bunk.

Pretty Soon Jim's eyes asked questions concerning the filled bag, but the mountain man warned:

“Keep shet! You'll see me in Nevada City. I've had a sign. Comp'ny coming. Take that kettle of stew outside. I'll hunt for some bowls.”

“All ready to eat?” asked York from the doorway.

He saw the mountain man's moccasin push the bag under the bunk.

“Trying to find some clean bowls,” mumbled Old Misery.

“I've brought three that'll do,” rejoined York. “Washed them myself to make sure.”

They seated themselves around the kettle and dished up the stew and supplemented it with cold meat and bread from the stranger's stores.

York proved to be a most interesting companion after they had finished the meal and had lighted their pipes. He informed them he was a gambler and was on his way to try the northern camps.

“And I'd be mighty glad to have your company as I'm carrying quite a bit of gold with me,” he confessed.

Pretty Soon Jim was fascinated by his entertaining talk and expressed the wish they might travel together.

“Mebbe we can,” said Old Misery. “Depends on how long your hoss is laid up. S'pose we have a look at him. I used to know something 'bout hosses when I was living over the ridge. Mebbe we can keep along together.”

York rose to lead the way.

To Pretty Soon Jim the mountain man directed. “Take the kettle inside,” and under his breath he added the one word, “Scoot!”

Pretty Soon surprised him by yawning sleepily and announcing:

“Think I'll turn in. Dead tired.”

“Didn't s'pose the fool would have sense 'nough to say that,” Old Misery told himself as he followed York.

It was growing dark as they reached the small corral. The horse came to the fence to be petted, and as the mountain man ran his hand over the sleek coat and limbs he knew it was one of the best horses money could buy in California. The intelligent animal nuzzled his master. York spoke sharply, and it moved away, walking with a decided limp. But when it approached the fence it had not, so far as Misery observed, walked lame.

“Sorry we can't wait for you,” regretted Misery. “But it'll take several days for the nag to git into shape. Wonderful critter!”

They returned to the cabins and stretched out on the grass and smoked another pipe and talked for more than an hour. York was the first to plead sleepiness, and retired to his cabin.

Old Misery, humming a medicine-song, entered his cabin and swept his hand over the bunk, fearing lest his companion had failed to catch his warning. The bunk was empty. Instead of taking his blankets and making his bed outside, the mountain man drew the bag with the medicine-rock from under the bunk and placed it under the window. Then he threw off his shirt and wrapped a blanket about him and stuck his long knife in the floor between his hunched-up knees and waited.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed. It seemed foolish to keep awake any longer when his medicine was standing guard at the window; and he rested his head on his knees and dozed off.

A step at the window, as soft as an Indian's, brought his head up with a jerk, but he continued breathing heavily and snored slightly. When the doorway darkened he drew his heels under him and released his knife. He was conscious of something passing toward the bunk.

The intruder, now missing the deep breathing he had heard from the open window, was suspicious.

In a low voice he said:

“It's York, Mr. Misery. Wake up! There is danger.”

Standing erect and dropping the blanket from his shoulders, the mountain man murmured:

“I’m awake. What’s the trouble?”

He heard York spin about on his heel.

“The mill-men plot to steal your bag of gold. Where are you?” whispered York.

“Here,” softly answered Misery, crouching low and whipping the blanket around his left arm and noiselessly moving several feet to one side.

“But your friend?”

And as he put the question York shifted his position.

“Gone these hours. I stayed to meet you, you damned murderer.”

And again a noiseless shift of position.

Neither was visible to the other unless lined against the open door or window.

“How'd you guess?” murmured York.

“Hoss trained to act lame.”

And as he spoke he stepped wide to his right and heard York's heavy knife end its flight in the logs.

He worked along the side wall, trying to get his man between him and one of the two openings. After a minute he decided York was making the same maneuver and that in a few seconds they would meet. Each was trying to catch the sound of the other's breathing. Then a slight noise at the window warned him York had attempted to pass that opening by keeping below the sill but had hit the bag containing the medicine-rock.

He leaped toward the window, straightening out his form, his outstretched hand sending the point of the long knife against something. Instantly the quiet of the place was shattered by a ferocious curse and the heavy bag struck the mountain man in the chest; and the next moment the bandit was closing in. Their knives found each other and slithered blade to blade until locked at the hilt. Now neither dared to release his weapon until he had forced the opposing blade to one side. It became a test of endurance, the bandit assuming he possessed the superior strength and being willing to bide his time. Suddenly the mountain man began shouting his war-whoop.

“Weakening, damn you!” panted York. “No help for you!”

Old Misery shouted again, then chuckled and informed York:

“I'm just calling in some witnesses afore sending you among ghosts.”

And with extra pressure he pushed the bandit's knife a bit aside.

York brought the blade back and gritted: “I'll overtake him!”

Old Misery taunted:

“They'll find you fighting me in my cabin. They'll know you come to rob me.”

And he renewed his shouting.

York tried to work him to and through the doorway, but the knife was ever barring the path. Suddenly the mountain man's knife gave way and the point pricked the bandit's wrist; then it was back, hilt to hilt. For the first time it flashed into the bandit's comprehension that the old man was playing with him and holding him there until the mill-men came.

Whereas he had been supremely confident he was now afraid. He leaped back several feet and with his left hand pulled a revolver and fired, as he thought, point blank. The detonation of the heavy weapon sounded like a thunder-clap. Men outside were crying excitedly and making for the cabin. York shifted his aim a bit and fired again; then went down clawing at his throat.

“Ho! Ho! You men out there!” cried Misery from the doorway. “Bring torches! A man tried to rob and murder me. Scared my partner away. Step smart. I've killed him. He's one of Murieta's band.”

One of the men, bolder than his mates, lighted a pine bough and held it up at the small window.

One glance and he was calling to the others:

“Dead man on the floor! Come on!”

They followed him inside. The smoky light revealed York, the heavy revolver clutched in one hand, the other hand grasping the handle of the knife buried in his throat. On the floor was his knife, and in the logs was stuck a second knife.

“He come loaded for b'ar,” puffed Old Misery. “'Lowed he'd need two knives to butcher two of us while we slept. Didn't want to use a gun and wake you folks up. That's why I hooted so.”

Then he picked up the buckskin bag and added:

“Keen to rob me. One of Murieta's men.”

“What'll happen to us when Murieta hears he was kilt here?” whispered the Pike County man.

“Hide the body in the ground. Saddle the hoss and lead it back to Kelly's Bar and turn it loose. That'll break the trail. Hoss'll be found on the ridge above the bar. Folks will think the rider was thrown off. Then all of you keep your mouths shet. I'm no hand to talk.”

The men retired outside the cabin and whispered for a few moments; then the spokesman told Misery:

“See here. You've brought trouble here. We want you to clear out before it's light. We'll swear neither of you stayed here longer than to eat a snack.”

“That's a medicine-talk. I'll go now. Just waited for you folks to come and git the right of the fuss,” readily agreed Old Misery.

It was late in the afternoon when Old Misery reached Nevada City. He made direct for Hotel de Paris and found Mr. Peters in his room, completing his street toilet.

“How's our Injun-medicine man?” he heartily greeted, his fresh-shaven face beaming welcome and his thick hand extended in greeting.

“I've got a mighty strong medicine since I see you last,” gravely informed Old Misery. “Medicine-picter of the ridge north of my camp. Mebbe I'll show it to you sometime; after I find out if it's willing. Some medicines are mighty techy. Some don't seem to care how much they're looked at. Now, Peters, I'm going to s'prise you. I'm trying to dodge trouble and need a little help.”

Mr. Peters was more than surprised; he was amazed. His portly form dropped into a chair, and his broad face grew serious.

“I'm taking cards,” he briefly replied. “Deal!”

Old Misery lowered his voice and rapidly explained the situation. Mr. Peters' face cleared, and he chuckled in deep amusement.

“Trouble? That's a joke. Fetch along your loot and I'll have it changed to nuggets before a cat can wink an eye. I thought it was something with guns and knives in it.”

“Like hell you did!” growled Old Misery, his beard bristling. “How long since I couldn't take care of that brand of trouble all by myself? If it was my gold I'd blow it just as it comes from the bag, and be damned to any one that tried to stop me. But Jim's cur'ous. Most medicines don't work for him. All the way here from Illinoistown my new medicine's been trying to tell me that something is wrong. I won't feel safe 'bout that cuss till he's on the Isthmus boat.

“I ain't had time to git well acquainted with my new medicine. I can't figger out just what's wrong; but something's missed fire.”

“Nonsense, Misery! It's all as simple as cold-decking a greenhorn. That reminds me; how's your young friend getting along?”

“Good. He's a well-meaning younker. Has some thing bu'sted in his head. Thinks things can happen afore they happen. Tells about his home folks in Vermont eating supper at six in the afternoon, but sticks to it that's three hours afore something happens out here at six o'clock. Sorter heyoka that way. It bothered Bill 'n' me a heap at first; but Bill says it don't do any harm, and we let him go it. But he's honest as sunshine; and when it comes to rubbing panther ile on sore muscles he's all—”

“I don't think there's any trouble waiting for him down here,” slowly said the gambler. “Two strangers up from the bay, come separate, who didn't gamble or care for mining. Prosperous-looking. One was hunting for a 'nephew,' a young man. Other man was keen to find track of a young Englishman. Says he's hired by the lad's folks to find him. He described our young friend better than the 'uncle' did. Both have left town; but I learned from Yuba, the stage-driver, they was hunting together in Marysville. Up here they pretended not to know each other.”

“Meaning the committee's trying to git track of him?”

“The one bet on the table. But I figure they're off the trail. They still think the youngster in the El Dorado is an Englishman. Nothing can break here without my knowing it in time to send word to the hollow in time for you to hide him. He never could explain it away, unless they believed him to be an idiot.”

“He's a heyoka man,” stoutly insisted Misery. “If they come into the hills I'll take him over the ridge and p'int him east. I'm going to call Grass Holler 'Camp Trouble.' I'll be Old Man Trouble-Mender. I'm s'posed to be trapping and taming bars. Instead the camp's all cluttered up with heyoka folks. Besides the younker there's Weymouth Mass and Sailor Ben, and old Miguel and Maria—”

“Better ship that girl out. Send her down into Mexico,” tersely broke in Mr. Peters. “Heard a man claim that the monte-dealer in the El Dorado was Ana Benites, one of Joaquin's band.”

Old Misery shook his head stubbornly.

“I'll never drive her out. She's living straight in Grass Holler. She'd never run away if old Miguel hadn't lambasted her one day when I was up the ridge. Why send her back to live as 'Ana Benites'? Natural she should think Joaquin's a great man. Calls him the Great One. All the Mexicans on the coast think the same. He's the first greaser to scare a whole army of white folks. But she's living straight up there, and I won't turn her loose to be trapped any more'n I turn them panther kittens loose while they're babies. If you'll finish your war-paint we'll go down and trail Pretty Soon Jim. Time he was showing up.”

“Tom Tobin's in town. Licked two toughs in front of Kelly's. He was asking if you'd got back.”

Old Misery's eyes sparkled.

“The little pestiferous cuss! He's had a snort of liquor and thinks he's carrying a war-pipe. Said I bit him! At Illinoistown, where we got to fooling. Never bit him. "Least, never went to. Had my eyes closed and my mouth open to give my sculp-yell and he had to flop a big ear atween my teeth. If it wa'n't for that heyoka Jim Pipps I'd catch up with him in liquor and then see how playful he is. He's awful good comp'ny when he's well primed and having war-dreams. Last time we met afore I come over the ridge to this side we fought all of two days. But it can't be.” This very sorrowfully. “I've got work to do. My new medicine says something's wrong.”

Mr. Peters, immaculate in appearance and benevolent of visage, accompanied his friend to the bar for a bracer and then started for Kelly's lodging-house. They had gone but half-way when they met Pretty Soon Jim, and at first glance Old Misery believed the derelict for once had broken his promise and was drunk.

Pretty Soon walked smartly enough, much better than usual; but there was an air of importance in his bearing, a light of confidence in his weak eyes, that as a rule only rum could give him. On beholding Old Misery he grinned patronizingly. He was entirely at his ease when presented to the gambler.

“You tall, thin sucker! Where's your blanket roll? At Kelly's? You've been hooting!”

“Threw the blankets away,” was the cheery response. “To-morrow I shall buy clothing that does me justice. I'm dry enough to drink the crick dry, but I ain't had a swaller.”

Old Misery stroked his beard in deep perplexity; and sniff the air as he would there was no aroma of “Double Rectified.”

Then he hopelessly mumbled:

“Plumb heyoka! The new medicine was trying to tell me that. If he was drunk he could be sobered up. But there's no cure for a heyoka man.”

Then to Mr. Peters, who was eying Pretty Soon Jim sharply:

“He's been took by some new fit afore we could load him on to a stage.”

Pretty Soon Jim chuckled contentedly and quietly announced:

“I ain't so simple as you think, Mr. Misery. I had a chance to invest some gold and make millions. Offer had to be took on the spot. No time to change the stuff into dust as we'd planned. And the price was so dirt cheap! Good Lawd! I can hardly believe my good luck, Mr. Misery! If the feller hadn't been bu'sted I'd said he was crazy. There he was mooning round his claim and cussing his luck and bleating about all sorts of awful things that would happened to him 'less he could get some money together quick. And inside a minute my experienced eye was seeing color everywhere. And the poor fool was missing it. Greenhorn, of course.

“I sweat blood, thinking he would sell to the man he was talking to. Lucky for me the man was a Cornish miner and never at home 'less deep down in the ground. I wasn't noticed any more'n if I was a hunk of dried mud. I dug that out the side of a hole with my fingers.”

He gleefully held up a six-dollar nugget. “And the place was lousy with as good or better!” he added. “When the other backed away I just waded in, and said: 'See here, mister. I'm a greenhorn and ain't got much money. But I'm keen to make a start; and if you say this claim's all right I might buy it. But it'll have to be dirt cheap.'”

“Go ahead!" choked Old Misery as Pretty Soon paused to breathe.

“Well, sir! I never see such a look of salvation and thanksgiving in a man's eyes as was in his when he turned on me. I don't look like ounce-diggings, of course. He just took me one side and with tears in his eyes asked me how much I could raise. Said he just had to have ready money. I wasn't fool enough to name every cent I had; so I said twenty-six hundred dollars. He seemed all broken up. Probably he knew he was a fool to sell, but he needed money most mortal. At last he said he'd trade for spot cash. I'd feel mighty mean this minute for making a profit out of him when he was so hard-pressed if I wasn't feeling so good. By and by I'll feel ashamed of myself. Maybe after I've got some of the exposed stuff out to-morrow I'll give him a little present of a thousand or two extry.”

“Have you traded yet?” hoarsely demanded Old Misery.

“Signed, sealed and delivered,” triumphantly cried Pretty Soon Jim. “I'm going to bu'st into it to-morrow. When's that agreement about no drinks to end? I feel like celebrating my luck.”

“Peters,” the mountain man said to the gambler, “you see how it is. All heyoka where most folks pack their brains. We won't have to bother you after all.”

And he turned to leave the surprised, yet amused gambler. Mr. Peters, however, wished for further entertainment, and he followed the couple into an empty corner of the nearest saloon and joined them as the mountain man ordered drinks.

After the glasses were emptied Old Misery casually inquired:

“Who's the galoot that out-Injuned you, Pretty Soon?”

“I don't know just what you mean,” stiffly replied Pretty Soon. “The gentleman I bought the claim of is called Phelps. He's located at Grass Valley.”

“Whoop" roared Old Misery, banging his fist on the table.

Glaring at Mr. Peters' weeping eyes, he hissed:

“Find Tom Tobin. Tell him I need his help. Tell him not to fetch me any war-pipes till after he's pulled me out of a hole. Bring him down to Kelly's. We'll be waiting.”

As the three passed from the room the bartender told a newcomer:

“Mighty glad he finishes up somewheres else. He breaks so much stuff. Always pays something han'some, but he takes notions when he gits on a spree. If a man can't handle it right he oughter leave it alone. Have another on the house.”

“Make it a small one. He's an old mountain man, isn't he? By the way, did you ever happen to hear of a girl called Ana Benites up here?”

The bartender shook his head and began:

“There's Annie Romaine, a French girl, and there's Anna—”

“Never mind. It doesn't matter. Good night.”

And the stranger went out, leaving his drink untasted.

CHAPTER VII

A MINING TRANSACTION

TOM TOBIN, beguiled into a truce on a solemn promise of a long and soul-satisfying battle later, finally consented to participate in Old Misery's scheme. His rôle was not onerous and consisted of keeping Pretty Soon Jim away from Grass Valley until the mountain man advised to the contrary. Having signed the pact with a drink, Old Misery made a hurried trip to his camp in the hidden hollow.

Old Miguel came from his darkened doorway, bowed low and gave respectful greetings to Senor Comandante. Bill Williams lumbered forth for a chew of tobacco. The cubs, seemingly grown much during their master's brief absence, were ready with a rough welcome.

“Where's the young folks?” asked Old Misery.

“The senorita is near, somewhere. The young senor went with the two miners.”

As her grandfather finished speaking the girl Maria came running from the pines and with a little cry seized Old Misery by the arm and swung back and forth.

“You young limb,” growled Old Misery as he patted her high-piled coils of blue-black hair, “how you behaved yourself since I was gone?”

She threw out both hands in a little gesture of weariness and answered:

“There is no monte. There is one man, my grandfather. There are the animals. The squirrels fight each day with El Carpentero. It is hard to do wrong up here.”

“Sounds like you was sorry and was wanting excitement. Young Yank been behaving?”

And he stared at her sharply.

She shrugged her shoulders and complained:

“He is all ice. Yankee-e Snow fills his heart. He is a mos' polite caballero. Such cold people, those Yankee—es!”

Old Misery surveyed her flushed face and lively eyes thoughtfully and muttered:

“More sense in him then I'd believed. Knew 'nough to clear out and dodge temptation.”

He dismissed her with a pat on the shapely head and walked to Gilbert's cabin.

TO Bill Williams at his side he confessed:

“You're right, Bill; it won't do to leave 'em alone too much. He may be cold-blooded, but she's all fire, and even ice will melt. The younker's medicine is from Wakantanka to make him see the danger of living alone with that young streak of scarlet in this holler. But you know, Bill, it was a case of have to. I'll take him with me next time. Got to go down the ridge for a day or two. No; you'd best stay here and look after things such as them cubs.”

In the cabin he procured a hammer and a pick and hid them in the pines up the slope. It was dark when he returned and found the girl Maria had cooked his supper. After eating he went to the cabin and found the story book that told of the three amazing Frenchmen and took it back to the fire and threw on pine cones. As he worked his way laboriously through page after page his pipe went out and he did not know it. At last his watery eyes called a halt, and he restored the book to the cabin shelf and rolled in his blankets by Bill Williams' side.

“Bill,” he sleepily confided, “I begin to like the big feller most. Young blood is all right, but luck helped him a heap. Big feller is sorter slow and thick-headed and ain't as wakan as the bookish galoot that gits writings from young women, but he's most like us humans. And stronger'n hell. But don't ever try to read it, Bill, less you find it set down in a Dakota winter-count. Damnest trail you ever see. Every t'other word is a brier or a bramble or a boulder. It's climb up and fall down. Lost my bearings a thousand times and had to guess at lots of landmarks. But I got the drift. I'd like to tell Jim Bridger that yarn. He'd swear I was as bad a liar as folks said he was when he told about his first trip to the Yallerstone Valley.”

In the morning he was up early and cooked his own breakfast. He called for Maria, and she came running, hungry for companionship.

He told her:

“I'm going up back a piece. Be gone all day. I'd take the younker along but he ain't come in. Wanter go along with me, or stay here?”

He was sure from the flashing light in her eyes that she would be for the adventure up the ridge.

She sighed and explained:

“I mus' stay. My grandfather is ver' bad in his mind. Ching-a-ling come two days ago and talked with him. Something Ching-a-ling said made him bad in his mind. Since then he spen' much time making his long knife ver' sharp.”

“That yaller breed come here again when I'm not to home and I'll heave him so far he won't strike till he hits Marysville. Be a good gal and don't bedevil the younker.”

“He is so ver' polite he would not know if one tried to bedeveel him,” she demurely replied. “You will come back, when?”

“To-night, if Tunkan, the Big Rock Medicine, helps me.”

And securing his rifle, he called to Bill Williams and entered the timber. He thrust the hammer through his belt, tied the pick on the bear's broad back and followed along the slope to the upper end of the hollow.

Soliloquizing on various problems that puzzled him, he would break off to endorse imaginary comments from the bear.

“Bill, never was a more wakan word spoke, and here's a chaw of terbacker for the same. You're dead right; human lives are just so many broken trails. They seem to start from nowhere and run wild. Seasons come roun' reg'lar 'nough. Some medicine fixes it so's seed is scattered and trees spring up, but we poor humans start from nowhere and travel blind. As you say, Bill, there must be some medicine that straightens out crooked trails and patches out broken ones till they git somewhere.”

He worked his way some distance up the ridge until he could look down on the timber flanking the slopes of Grass Hollow. He halted in a thick growth of ever greens and ate a cold lunch and fed his companion. Then for fifteen minutes he studied the country below him.

Satisfied that he had that portion of the ridge to himself, he passed through the evergreens into a narrow defile overhung with bush growth and followed it up until it opened into a cuplike depression. Surrounding this to the height of a hundred feet rose the naked walls of rock. Through it trickled a tiny stream of icy water, fringed with grass. In ages past the rivulet must have been a rushing, brawling stream, strong enough to eat a channel through the hollow. Bill Williams curled up on the warm turf and fell asleep.

Old Misery advanced toward the upper end of the depression and fell to work with his pick. He detested the task although he was working in ancient alluvial soil and encountered no obstacles. He had brought no shovel with him and was forced to paw out the loose dirt with his hands. At last he exclaimed aloud in relief and straightened to glance about. Bill Williams still slept and he knew the bear would never slumber if a two-legged intruder was near.

Working more carefully the mountain man proceeded to uncover a pocket of small nuggets, round and worn just as they had been left by the vanished torrent ages before. He put them in a bag and estimated their value at about two hundred dollars.

He was impatient to call it a day and be returning down the ridge, but with a groan decided:

“Mustn't half-do it. Ain't so hard as cracking rock for t'other parcel of dust. Got to have 'nough for a mess.”

And he resumed digging and kept at it until he found another pocket and enough of the nuggets to make the total value of his work more than five hundred dollars.

Concealing the pick at the lower end of the depression, he spoke to the bear and descended the ridge. As he entered the upper end of Grass Hollow he could hear the stentorian voice of Weymouth Mass commenting on the fortunes of gold possessed by the different ancients mentioned in sacred and profane history. His voice was that of a schoolmaster, and the mountain man could picture the small audience scattered around him. Moving along back of the cabins, he halted by the third and spied on the group. Gilbert was sprawled near the fire, the light revealing a woebegone face. The girl Maria sat behind him, pretending to be an eager listener, but with her slumbrous gaze often resting on the melancholy youth. Sailor Ben, flat on his back, was asleep. Weymouth Mass, seated cross-legged, was gesticulating with one brawny arm while the other was rolling up the long beard.

“—and that's why no mining was carried on in the whole world for two hundred years after Mohammed appeared. That proves it's mighty hard on placer-men when some one tries to cram and jam a new religion down their throats. The first man to coin gold was Darius, one of the old kings. All the way round the Horn I primed myself on the history of money till some one stole my books. Money's a good thing, young man, if you use it right. It didn't spoil Isaac, or David, or Abraham, or Job, and they was all thrifty, well-to-do folks. But if we ain't careful what we do in getting it, or what we do after we get it, it's a bad thing. So it's spoiled lots of folks. I haven't any doubt that a foolish use of money is meant by the 'harlot' mentioned in Proverbs, where it says: “She hath cast down many wounded. Yea, many strong men have been slain by it.

“Now it would be mighty bad for Sailor Ben snoring there to have all the gold he'd like to have. He'd begin a watch below decks and stay drunk till he died. Worst of all is the wicked rich. Doesn't God say of them, “Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you'? Just see how love of money worked mischief to Judas and Ananias, and Achan and Gehazi. So we don't want to be like them, young man.”

Old Misery now advanced. Gilbert leaped to his feet and fairly embraced him.

After the greetings were over the mountain man seriously asked:

“Weymouth, have your medicine tell me this: Will a decent amount of gold hurt Pretty Soon Jim? I heard some of your powwow 'bout gold. And you know Jim.”

Weymouth Mass pursed his lips and pondered deeply, and finally decided:

“Jim Pipps is a most unfortunate man without gold. I can't see as it would make him any worse off to have some. He'd never use it to hurt any one but himself; and some one's sure to cheat him out of it before he went far doing that. But he never will get hold of any gold, Misery. Some folks is foreordained to get it; some ain't.”

Sailor Ben awoke with a snort and staggered to his feet to roll sleepily away to the third cabin.

Weymouth Mass rose to follow him, pausing only to inform Old Misery:

“His luck is beginning to crop out. Ain't mentioned rum only twice to-day. Led me to some dry diggings, and I panned out eight or ten colors. Not much in itself, but proves his luck is waking up. Mighty soon he'll nose out a pay streak, a fat one! Inside of a month he'll hound a vein right back to the mother-lode. But I have to watch him like a cat, or old Satan will be tempting him to quit the deck and steal down below.”

As he strode after the sailor the girl Maria rose and smoothed out her skirt and with a quizzical glance at the sober-faced Vermonter suggested:

“Senor Gilbert is one who would not be spoil' by too much gold now he says he will not gamble again.”

“No, never again!” cried Gilbert. “Old Misery, when do I begin to earn day wages and begin paying back?”

“You've been earning 'em right along,” was the prompt reply. “Stop fretting. I do that for this whole outfit. 'Cording to what Weymouth said once it took the Almighty six whole days to make this world. You oughter be willing to work a season to make up for your fool mistakes. I want you to go down the ridge with me to-morrer. Maria, you make out a grub-list. I'll take the mule and leave Bill Williams at home. We'll start early.”

“You go away; you come back; you go away,” muttered the girl. “Only Maria and her grandfather, Senor Squirreel and El Carpentero stay. Is it not? Do I never go down the ridge again and see people and hear them talk?”

Old Misery hesitated; then admitted:

“That's a good talk. You oughter see something besides this holler. My medicine tells me there ain't no danger in your taking a peek at the world below. I picked this up in Nevada City. Some sort of a show at Grass Valley. No harm in your dropping down there to see it two nights from now. Keep clear of Nevada as folks they still speak about the woman monte dealer of the El Dorado. You can make the valley late in the afternoon and come part way up the ridge after the show bu'sts up and camp.”

As he talked he pulled from his shirt a soiled handbill announcing the appearance of the “Beautiful and Famous Lola Montez as Julia in The Hunchback.”

Gilbert's steamer acquaintance Roger was cast as “Master Walter.”

“By George! I'd like to see her on the stage!” cried Gilbert. “She must be a very clever woman. You'll like her, Maria.”

“I do not theenk I care to see it or her,” the girl surprised the two men by announcing.

She ran to her cabin, and Old Misery tossed the handbill on the fire and muttered:

“I can tell what an Injun, or a bar, or a buf'ler is likely to do. But only Taku Wakan can say what a woman will do. Anyway, younker, you can see it, as Grass Valley is where I'm bound for. They've been asking 'bout a young Englisher in Nevada City, but the trail was blind. It'll be all right for you to go along with me. How long was China-a-ling here?”

Gilbert shook his head, explaining:

“I was out with Weymouth when he called. Didn't see him. One day I forgot about not being allowed be hind old Miguel's cabin, and cut through the pines. Got an awful scare. He stood there in the shadows, big hat almost hiding his face, his cloak muffled around him; and he had a long knife in his hand. I don't think he saw me, but his ears told him where I was. He never said a word; neither did I. Maria laughed at me when I told her. She scares me at times. She's the kind that would never forgive any one she got mad at.”

“Comanches 'n' gineral run of Injuns that way. Have no idee of forgiveness. Do 'em a bad turn and only blood will rub it out. Pines back of the cabin is Miguel's medicine-place. Keep clear of it. No; the gal wouldn't forgive any one she got mad at.”

He carried the thought with him as he went to the ledge to say good night to Bill Williams; and he muttered:

“She'd never forgive anybody she loves if her love wa'n't give back to her. Ruther bring up a whole tribe of panthers then one woman.”

Avoiding Nevada City, they arrived at Grass Valley late in the afternoon.

Old Misery directed:

“You take this grub-order to the store man and tell him I'll pay when I call for it. I'll take the mule to the stable. You'll prob'ly find me at Burton's Eating-House.”

Gilbert took the list, made out by Maria, and noticed it called for flour, tea, beans, saleratus powders, sugar, coffee, codfish, potatoes, dried apples and a can of molasses. After leaving it at the store he set out to find the theater before rejoining Old Misery. He would have been content with walking around the structure had he not glimpsed Phelps parting from a woman at the door. The woman was Lola Montez and as Phelps walked away Gilbert advanced to make himself known.

There was diffidence in his bearing, and he felt much embarrassed as Miss Montez stared at him haughtily and without a sign of recognition. He was attempting to find an excuse for retiring when she happened to observe that Phelps had turned and was watching her. The transformation of her cold face was quite remarkable. Warmth and welcome beamed in her wonderful eyes, and the straight, hard mouth became soft and smiling as she stretched forth both hands. The cordiality of her greeting threatened to complete the young man's gawky confusion, but when she linked her arm in his and insisted he escort her to her boarding-place he was ready to proclaim her divine.

She did the talking, chatting gaily and rapidly and recalling their meeting on the boat as something precious bestowed on them by a kindly fate. He was not in love. Too well was he remembering one of the Walker girls back home. But he was hungry for companionship and a bit of womanly sympathy. He had invited sympathy from Maria, only to draw back, fearing an outburst of her volcanic nature would consume him. But Miss Montez was less primitive. She was older and safer.

When they turned in at her boarding-place she saw Phelps still watching them; and she cooed and exclaimed nothings while Gilbert struggled with monosyllables.

Just as he was conquering his bashfulness and was eager to talk Phelps turned away, and the actress suddenly became reserved and casually inquired:

“Mr. Phelps is a very successful man, they tell me.”

“He's said to be worth a million. When I saw your name on the play-bill—”

“You must not come in. It would not be proper. Good-by.”

“But I may see you again,” he pleaded. “I'm coming to the theater to-night. At least I'll see you once more.”

She made some nice calculations. Phelps would be there. He was one who enjoyed flying near the candle, but not too near. She suspected he assumed an air of proprietorship when talking with men.

With a rare smile she patted his arm and half-promised:

“Perhaps you shall see me to talk to me. You poor boy, you are lonely. I can see that. But my work tires me much. If I'm too nervous I shall refuse to speak to you. But if I'm not whimsy I shall let you walk home with me. Now trot along before folks begin to talk.”

Marveling at having found such a friend—such a fine, handsome, attention-compelling woman—Gilbert almost swaggered as he slowly made for the eating-house. He wished the distance were greater, that he might have more time to enjoy his thoughts. Suddenly his way was barred, and, returning to earth, he beheld Phelps, the millionaire ledge man. When he last saw Phelps the man was good-natured and smiling although disappointed at not finding gold in Grass Hollow. This was a different Phelps, hard of visage and hostile of eye.

“Hold your hosses a minute, Ounce-Diggings. How do you come to know Miss Montez?” he curtly demanded.

The tone more than the question irritated the Vermonter.

“What business is that of yours?” he countered.

“Now, see here, my young greenhorn; none of that to Phelps of Grass Valley. 'Specially when you're in Grass Valley,” warned the miner.

“You've no right to ask me how I happened to know any one,” hotly returned Gilbert.

“I have every right,” insisted Phelps. “Miss Montez has just the same as said she would be my wife.”

Gilbert was nonplused. Added to his sense of shame was his sense of loss. Friendship with the charming actress was denied him. In a dull sort of a way he wondered why, if pledged to Phelps, she could have as good as promised him the pleasure of escorting her home. In Vermont engaged couples were very punctilious in their deportment. Both man and woman shut out the world on surrendering to love. Gilbert began to feel as if he had been caught trying to steal that which belonged to another. His demeanor changed from resentment to a desire to exonerate himself.

“We met at San Francisco when boarding the boat. To-day she happened to remember me. Said I might do as juvenile in her company. One of her company, Mr. Roger, introduced me to her.”

Phelps' stormy brow cleared.

“Of course. I might have known,” he murmured. “Lola is bound to have many admirers and friends.” Then with a flash of jealousy he added, “But from now on I'm keeping cases on 'em.” Apologetically he hastily went on: “I didn't just mean that. But so few women out here, good women. And so many men. Don't mention anything I've said to her. Stage folks are finicky, I dare say. Different from other folks. And you probably won't see her to speak to her again anyway. I don't mean to say I've filed my claim on her yet, but she's as good as said it's to be a partnership for life.”

“I'm not interested,” stiffly rejoined Gilbert. “We only met while traveling to Sacramento. If she's good enough to notice me I can't run away.”

“Of course not,” slowly agreed Phelps, furtively eying him. “Any time you feel like earning mighty good wages, I have a fat job for you. Not hard work, either. That's what I really stopped you to say. You're still with that queer old coot?”

“I'm with one of the best men on earth. He's called Old Misery.”

“No harm meant. Fine old man,” hurriedly agreed Phelps.

“And now I must go and find him. He came down to buy supplies,” and Gilbert hurried on.

When he turned a corner he glanced back, and there was Phelps, looking after him.

“Darned fool's jealous,” chuckled Gilbert; and somehow the thought was no longer displeasing.

Surely it was something of a compliment to have attracted the attention of such a wonderful woman as Lola Montez. Then he all but bumped into the girl Maria.

She was a day ahead of the time set by Old Misery. As he gaped at her in surprise a round spot of red glowed in each cheek and there was a peculiar fixed look in the half-closed eyes.

Before he could collect his wits and inquire how she happened to be in town a day early she was saying in a low voice:

“Senor Gilbert loses no time in running to fin' his lady-love.”

“Nonsense, Maria. I scarcely know the lady.”

“Lady? Nombre de Dios!”

And with hands on her hips she threw back her head and closed her eyes to the hot sunshine and laughed shrilly.

Suddenly sobering, she thrust her head forward and hissed:

“She is a play-acting woman. She is a living lie-e!”

The last was fairly hissed between the small white teeth.

Gilbert blinked and defended himself:

“Well, even so. What's that to me? What do I care?”

Instantly she was all smiles, and her beautiful eyes were very friendly.

“Senor Gilbert is a Yankee-e. He looks on life too sober. He theenks every one means what is said. The play-acting senorita is to marry a ver' rich man, Senor Don Phelps. Sol She marries a ver' rich mine, ver' much gold. She is not for a young Americano—who owes much gold.”

“You don't need to tell me that,” he bitterly cried. “It was your cursed monte game that took the gold. No, no, Maria. That was cowardly for me to say. No blaming the woman. I was a fool. That's all. But while I'm mighty green there's no danger of my falling in love out here.”

“Oh-o! So?” she whispered, drawing back from him. “Senor Gilbert is so ver' hard to please.”

And although the red lips remained piquantly pouting the eyes were hostile.

“Don't make me out worse than I am,” he pleaded. “How can I look any honest woman in the face after what I've done? It's impossible. I'm a ruined man.”

She smiled delightedly and softly reminded him:

“You can look a woman in the face if she is not too hones'. Is it not? Si. If a woman takes gold she did not own to her ugly grandfather she is not too hones'. What does love care about being hones'?”

His face burned hotly. He had never dreamed that a woman could take the initiative in love-making. It was not maidenly. It was abnormal. A back-home girl would die before she would advance a step prior to her lover's avowal. He was positive of that much.

“I must go and find Old Misery,” he told her. “I am keeping him waiting.”

“You are a ver' bold caballero,” she observed with a little sneer, and yet with a touch of pathos in her voice. Then very sprightly, “But luck is in your face, senor, if you be lucky in love. If not, there is danger. Adios.”

And she was flitting on through the hot sunlight and causing men to turn their heads and look after her and her red slippers and red stockings.

With his thoughts somewhat mixed and his state of mind disagreeable Gilbert entered Burton's and stared about for several moments before realizing his patron was not there. The room was practically deserted.

A large fat man behind a long counter lazily inquired:

“Lost your hat, sonny?”

Gilbert decided the inquiry was intended to be ironical, for he was wearing his hat. However, he was in no mood to resent trifles.

“I'm looking for Old Misery from up the ridge,” he explained.

The fat man came to his feet and earnestly advised him:

“Then go through the back door and run as fast as you can, or you'll find him. He's two doors below, drunker'n a blind owl and hunting for something tough to chaw on. Thank God he took a notion to quit this place. But you run toward Nevada City and you'll lose him.”

Saddened that his friend should be a victim of weakness, but feeling no fear of him, Gilbert returned to the street. Three men violently erupted through a doorway. One landed on his hands and knees and scrambled around the corner of the building without bothering to get on his feet. From inside the saloon rang out the well-known war-whoop of the mountain man on a spree. Gilbert advanced to the door and waited a moment to accustom his eyes to the shadowy interior.

Old Misery stood at the bar alone, his long knife sticking in a slab before him. He held a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. Several men seated at tables along the wall were pretending to be engrossed in card games. The bartender, rather wild of eye, was torn between a desire to quit his post and wisdom's prompting to pacify his unwelcome customer by catering to his whims. The mirrors behind the bar had cost much money.

Old Misery saw Gilbert as the latter started for the bar, and roughly demanded:

“What do you want in this den of sin?”

“You,” said Gilbert without being conscious of having spoken. Then he found himself at the old man's side, and removing the bottle and glass from his hands and plucking the knife from the bar.

He heard himself saying:

“He's had enough. What's the score?”

“Score? Good lord! Nothing! And welcome to go,” exclaimed the bartender.

“Come!” commanded Gilbert, clapping a hand on Misery's shoulder. “A little sleep will fix you all right.”

The mountain man made curious sounds in his throat, flung a small nugget on the bar and meekly permitted the young man to escort him from the place. As they took to the street the doorway behind them was filled with surprised faces.

“Lodging-house right above eating-house,” Misery informed in a muffled voice.

“Good. But you know you oughtn't to do this way. Some day, when you've had too much some one will harm you.”

The mountain man was seized with a coughing spell. After Gilbert had pounded him on the back he managed to mumble:

“You're wakantanka. Your medicine's stronger than the neck-hide of a buf'ler. Show me a bunk. I'll be all right in the morning. Mind's sorter filled with fog. Prob'ly water in some of that whisky—You come down here to go—to see—”

“I was going to the theater. I will stay with you.”

“No, siree! I'll sleep like a baby till morning. I'm saying it on a pipe.”

Postponing his decision until after he had eaten, Gilbert saw his charge tucked into a bunk and the rifle and medicine-bag checked at the small desk. Then he hurried back to the eating place for his supper. The trip was a ghastly disappointment. He was homesick for Grass Hollow; for any place except this.

He was not conscious of the fat proprietor's hovering attentions and the double portions heaped upon his plate. He was oblivious to the staring and whispering his presence seemed to excite among the other diners. Finally he was aroused by the proprietor creasing his fat stomach against the edge of the counter as he leaned forward to whisper:

“Sonny, how'n hell did you do it?”

Gilbert stared at him blankly.

The man elucidated, “Taming that old he-bear. Gitting that old hellion to bed. Bartender below told me you snaked him away. Boys spied a bit at the bunkhouse. But how'n hell did you do it?”

“I thought he had had enough, and told him so. I don't see why it should interest anybody,” Gilbert answered as he endeavored to mend his broken train of melancholy thoughts.

“Not interest anybody!” ponderously cried the proprietor, tossing up his hands helplessly. “Good lord! A man has a heaven-given gift and let's on as how it don't interest nobody! Fellers, that beats the Dutch" Then to Gilbert he eagerly offered. “Your gifts interests me to the tune of eight dollars a day. All you do is just loaf in here and hint to folks when it's time they was leaving. Eight dollars a day, your meals and bunk and washing. When any one can make that old hellion back down—”

“See here!” broke in Gilbert, beginning to realize such characterizations were unwholesome: “none of that. He's my friend.”

“I'm born dumb, sonny. You can't pick no argument with me. Your friend is a ark-angel, and nothing less. Have some more hash? Steak? Eggs? Coffee? Any thing. No charge. I owe it to you. I figger you saved me about eight hundred dollars' worth of mirrors. That old—gentleman—let on he was going to drop in here later and learn me how to run a eating-house. Wish you'd come here and live.”

Gilbert paid his score without understanding much of the talk. Nor did he try to understand it. The fat man impressed him as being drunk or crazy. That a man, starting to leave ahead of him, should skip to one side with grotesque haste and give him the right of way, impressed him fleetingly as being a bit of crude horse-play.

To kill the time he bought a New York Herald, the favorite with northern men, and then balanced his purchase with a New Orleans Delta, the first choice of southerners. Thus armed he returned to the bunkhouse and read until it was time for the theater to open. Then he tried to decide whether it would be wise to leave his patron. The proprietor, as if possessing a mind-reading gift, assured him the old man had slept all the time during his absence and would wake up sober.

“Anyway, I won't let him get out if he wants to,” he added.

“Then I'll go. I won't be gone long,” decided Gilbert.

Before leaving he went to the bunk and placed his hand on the sleeper's forehead in search of fever symptoms. The forehead was cool and moist.

He took his newspapers to the theater.

When attempting to pay his way in he found himself facing Roger, who grinned broadly and informed:

“Money's no good. Queenie says you're her guest to—night.

This was an unexpected courtesy and he felt a flash of pleasure. Then he saw Phelps' gloomy face just inside the door and knew he had overheard Roger's words and was resenting Miss Montez's display of favoritism. As Gilbert passed through the doorway the mine-owner curtly remarked:

“You git in free. I have to pay.”

Making no reply Gilbert secured a seat under a lamp and resumed reading. Scarcely a dozen were present when he opened his papers, and he managed to lose himself until the house filled and the play began. From the moment when the curtain rose he was in a new world. He was greatly fascinated and charmed by the girlish innocence of Julia before she was brought to London to marry Sir Thomas Clifford. It seemed impossible that Julia's guardian, the hunchback, could be the man who, in another world, had passed him in free. But his heart was torn with fear when Julia became a votary of pleasure, threw over Clifford and pledged herself to that wretch, the Earl of Rochdale.

As it did seem the miserable wedding must take place he wanted to cry out for her to withdraw. Then he went limp and happy as the girl came to her senses and implored the hunchback to prevent the marriage. He cheered wildly when it transpired that Walter was the girl's father, the real Earl of Rochdale, and all the time had wanted his daughter to marry Clifford.

He was only half-freed from illusion as he edged his way to the door and the real world. Lola Montez was the most wonderful woman in the world. He knew it. She was not the sweetest and most desirable, however, as the girl back home must always be that. It was incredible that the famous Montez had paused to bestow smiles on him. She would never do it again; and he stumbled into the street.

Some one jostled against him and said something, but the young man's mind was back in London and his eyes were reviewing the rivalry between the dissipated impostor and honest Clifford.

“Wake up! Asleep or dead?” impatiently repeated Roger, tugging his arm. “Lola says you're to walk home with her. Here she comes.”

Before he could adjust his mind to Roger returned to life, minus his deformed back, Miss Montez was sweeping down on him from the doorway, ignoring the admiring glances of her worshipers, and beaming upon him in a most amiable manner. Like one in a dream he found himself squiring her to her boarding-house. She may have seen Phelps following some distance behind, undoubtedly did see him, but Gilbert did not. Nor did he see the girl Maria standing in a doorway, watching with burning eyes, as they passed close to her.

He never recalled that they talked much. He was bewildered by her condescension in accepting him as an escort. But there was no sentiment in it. It was much as if he had been requested by one of the Fine Arts—say, Music, Painting, or Sculpture—to beau it home. For simple heart-interest it was too lofty and remote to compare with the ecstatic human joy of walking beside a maid from singing-school on a crisp Vermont winter night. It was distinction. One might feel that way while being knighted, yet return to kiss a serving-maid.

He said “good night” as one who completes a tremendous bit of ritual. She said something that sounded like “stupid” and closed the door ungently. Then Gilbert recalled Old Misery and became objective. He almost ran to the bunkhouse and was greatly relieved to find his charge still asleep.

“Ain't moved a muscle since you went,” sleepily informed the man at the desk.

Gilbert took one of his newspapers and wiped fresh mud off the moccasins, but never paused to wonder how it got there. He turned in and endeavored to analyze his feelings and emotions. Out of the welter of impressions emerged the stark reminder that Joseph Gilbert had dropped from sight and that the east and singing-schools were sealed against him.

Then he opened his eyes and found it was morning and that Old Misery was genially urging him to stir his lazy bones and make ready for breakfast.

Back of the mountain man stood two strangers. One was tall, and cadaverous of face. His long features were accented by a thin, wiry beard. He looked to be rather simple. Indubitably he had had a hard time in life as his hand trembled as it caressed the whiskers and his eyes were weak and watery. The other man was short and stocky of build, and of a brick-red complexion that suggested he had been baked by the sun. His eyes, while inflamed, were belligerent, and stared stonily at the young man. Like Old Misery he wore buckskin and was carrying a rifle.

“May do, but his fur's scurcely prime yet,” he told Old Misery.

From his steady gaze Gilbert suspected he was the object of the remark. Yet this seemed very illogical. Only animals had fur.

“Just a mild snifter to settle my nerves,” the tall man pleaded.

“Not even a smell till you've ate your breakfast and worked four hours on that new claim of yours,” Old Misery firmly replied. “This is the young feller I spoke of. Younker, this tall sucker is Pretty Soon Jim. Just made his fortune by buying a rich claim. This old he-devil is Tom Tobin, who let's on he can lick any man in the mountains but me.”

“But you?” exploded Tobin. “Remember your promise, you old landmark. And next time you bite me—”

“You're mistook, Tom. And I've said it a hundred times,” solemnly interrupted Misery. “I was trying to sound—”

“Yah! And your teeth 'slipped,'” growled Tobin. “But this ain't no place to settle it. Let's git busy and have this mining over with.”

“That's medicine talk. The claim is s'posed to be very rich—”

“Richer than spatter!” cried Pretty Soon Jim.

“And I'm sorry I can't go along and see the big chunks of pure gold come out the dirt. But Tom and the younker will go with you, Jim. They won't let any one jump your claim. And if any one tries to buy it Tom'll see you git a good figger and—”

“Sell? Sell that claim?” shrilly cried Pretty Soon. “I'd as soon think of selling my granddad!”

Old Misery grabbed him by the front of his shirt and growled:

“Now you hark to me. If any one makes a offer that Tom says is good you snap it up, or you'll not go back home. By this time some of Murieta's band has heard about gold-slugs being fetched into this valley. If he goes to cutting up, Tom, stick your knife right through his in'ards.”

“I'll cut him up wakan way, just like a Dakota cuts up a buf'ler,” was the gruff assurance.

Confused by this exchange of advice and threats and not having the slightest idea as to what it related Gilbert hurriedly washed and dressed. Old Misery had all the appearance of being sober except that his talk was irrational. But, also, was the talk of the stranger's puzzling. The three of them appeared to be in a hurry and, accompanied by Gilbert, were soon in the eating-house and ordering their breakfast.

Gilbert was greatly annoyed by the proprietor's secret signals to him. He interpreted them to be a plea for him to hold his friends in check. Old Misery developed an inclination to chuckle and laugh, which might be taken as symptoms of imbecility. Tobin for most of the time remained dour and silent, but there were moments when a wide grin split his homely face and his inflamed eyes lighted with a warmth of humanism.

As they were filing out to the street Old Misery drew Gilbert to one side and hurriedly explained:

“Tom and Pretty Soon are going to tap a claim and see how it pans out. Think you'd better go along with them, but you're your own boss. You can tell me all about it afterwards. I'll get the mule and be packing the grub. Find me at the store.”

Gilbert scented a stratagem to get him out of the way until the interrupted spree could be resumed.

His eyes put the question, and with a foolish grin the mountain man promised:

“Just simon-pure business from now on, younker. Won't tech a drop. Mizzle along and don't fret. I'll yet do credit to your bringing up.”

“After this funny business is over there's that little argument 'tween you and me, Misery,” mumbled Tobin.

“All right, all right, old hoss-fly. I'll comb you so good next time we git to fooling that folks will travel all the way from the Snake River to look down on what's left of you. That's a promise.”

And he hurried away, laughing as if vastly amused.

Tobin stared at Gilbert for a few moments, then smiled slightly, and said:

“You must be all right if Old Misery takes to you. Great old cuss. Couldn't ask for a stouter friend— But, damn him Say what he will, he bit my ear a-purpose at Illinoistown.”

“He never could do such a thing!” indignantly denied Gilbert.

Tobin swallowed, breathed hard, then meekly surrendered:

“I pass. You win. Hi, you Pipps. Come away from that saloon winder. We'll mosey down to that claim of yours and watch you earn a honest four-bits. Signs look like lots of folks is keen to see you work.”

Armed with pick and shovel Pretty Soon Jim led the way for a mile from the business center. Trailing along some distance behind the three men came a score or more of citizens. Phelps brought up the rear with a group of personal friends. Until he glimpsed Gilbert he had laughed much. The young man's presence dulled his sense of the humorous, however.

Arriving at the claim Tobin seated himself and lighted his pipe and remarked to Gilbert: “From what I've heard this is pretty rich.”

A snicker ran through the line of men grouped along the opposite side of the claim. Pretty Soon Jim jumped into the hole, some six feet in diameter, and commenced extracting several tiny nuggets in the sides.

He called out to Tobin: “Thicker than spatter!”

The onlookers cast off all restraint and shouted in glee. Pretty Soon paused and stared at them; whereat they laughed more uproariously. One man pounded Phelps on the back and declared he could not be beat for “funning.” The Georgia man, vastly amused, told a neighbor that it was the clumsiest bit of “salting” he had ever seen. The free gold was soon collected and Pretty Soon began shoveling from the sides.

After some minutes of work he stopped and commented: “Appears to be farther apart than I'd supposed.”

This threw the spectators into a paroxysm of laughter. Phelps grinned modestly under a shower of compliments.

Tobin softly suggested to the perplexed Pipps: “Take a whack at the bottom.”

Pretty Soon seized the pick, struck a dozen mighty blows, and then began excavating. The onlookers were too weak by this time to make more than gurgling sounds. After half a dozen shovelfuls Pretty Soon gave a hoarse cry and dropped on his knees. The miners summoned more laughter; but Phelps, who knew he had not salted the bottom of the hole, craned his neck and peered down to detect what had aroused Pretty Soon's emotion.

“Oh, lord! Oh, lord! Look here, fellows!” wailed Pretty Soon.

“The man's stuck the pick in his foot!” cried Gilbert.

“He was using the shovel,” corrected Tobin, rising.

“Look here! Bed of an old river! Reg'lar nest of them! Just like tiny little eggs! Rich as spatter? I wouldn't sell it for a million!”

“Hold on there! What are you yapping like that for?” cried Phelps, running to the edge of the hole and making to drop in.

But Tobin pushed him back, growling,

“This is private property. Welcome to watch the man's good luck but don't use that tone of voice while on his land, or jump down in there to bother him. Ain't that right, Pipps? You don't want this cheap-looking cuss bothering you, do you?”

Still on his knees and pawing out the pocket of smooth, worn river nuggets, Pipps cast a glance up at the two men and cried:

“Good lord! Don't lay a hand on him! Why, he's Mr. Phelps, that sold me this claim. If it wa'n't for him I'd only have twenty-seven hundred dollars to my name! He's more'n welcome to watch. It's just as you vowed, Mr. Phelps. It's lousy with nuggets. No fine stuff. All in pockets worn deep into the old river bed. Jump down and take a peek.”

With a snarl Phelps leaped into the hole and roughly pushed Pretty Soon back and examined the pocket carefully. He could scarcely credit his senses. What he had believed to be a worthless claim was resting within two feet of an ancient river bed.

“Try it again,” he huskily urged.

Pretty Soon swung the pick and then fell to shoveling. He soon uncovered a second pocket. It was larger than the first. By this time the hole was fringed several deep by excited miners, and there was no laughter now in the strained, gold-hungry faces.

“Good lord!” yelled the Georgia man. “It makes to the north. It runs under old Hicks' abandoned claim!”

And he turned and ran as if only speed could save his life. The adjoining claim had been used as a dump for two years.

Others took the hint and endeavored to outrace the Georgia miner.

While Phelps wiped the sweat from his forehead and stared stupidly at the nuggets Tobin refilled his pipe and lazily remarked:

“Always the way. Man digs a hole a few feet deep, then quits, when ten minutes' more work would fetch him a fortune. Go ahead, Jim. Next pocket oughter pan out a bushel.”

“Stop! Wait a minute!” gasped Phelps, raising a trembling hand. “I sold this claim. I'll buy it back. I sold it for a song. I'll buy it back for a good price.”

“More he uncovers the more you'll pay,” chuckled Tobin.

“No! I don't have to have it. I've got enough without it. But it was mine. I was a fool to sell. I'll buy it back if you'll sell now, Jim.”

Pretty Soon did not wish to sell. For the first time in his life, aside from finding the one small pocket below Coloma, he was realizing his dreams of digging up wealth. Gold in pockets' Each pocket richer than the preceding one! He visualized the ancient river bed leading him up into the foot-hills, up to the ridge of the mother-lode, where even the most avaricious must weary of digging up huge chunks of pure gold. He stood staring at Phelps.

Phelps had trouble with his breathing.

“I'll buy it back if you'll sell now,” he managed to repeat.

Tobin reached down and slapped a hand on Phelps' shoulder and said: “No place to make a bargain. Git out. Talk to me. What I say, Pipps will do. I'm his friend. He's easy to best in a bargain. If he wants to sell I'm going to see he gits a decent price. And a square chance to clean up this claim if he wants to hold it. You talk with me.”

Phelps hesitated, then climbed from the hole and went aside while Tobin stayed to talk rapidly and earnestly to Pipps. While waiting Phelps twisted his hands and clawed at his throat, and all but exploded because of the curses he inwardly was hurling at his own stupidity.

“Jim, you must sell and go home, or you'll never have a cent. I'm repeating Old Misery's talk. I'm talking for him. We agreed on that figger and added to it what you paid for the claim. Now go ahead and name your price. Don't hear anything he says till he says yes."

Pretty Soon, sad of countenance for a millionaire in the making, beckoned for Phelps to join him, and wearily informed:

“My friend says I ain't fit to stay out here. He says this is my chance to go home, and that a little is as good for me as a million. Maybe he's right.”

“God has blessed you in giving you such a friend,” fervently cried Phelps. “Right? Never was a righter word said. Why, Jim, some one would jump this claim. or git you drunk and cheat you inside of a week.

“If I had my say I wouldn't sell for a million,” bitterly assured Pretty Soon.

“Ha! ha! You're a wild boy. But I know how you feel. As it is, Jim, what'll you take?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it I want my twenty-six hundred back—”

“Done! It's no more'n right you should have it back.”

“And thirty thousand dollers to boot.”

“Thir-thirty thousand!” spluttered Phelps. “Why, you only paid twenty-six hundred.”

“But you own a rich ledge that didn't cost you anything. You just located. Anyway, that's the figure, unless some of the men coming on the run, are willing to pay more.”

“But it's ridiculous! Ask your friend there—”

“That's his figure for sixty seconds,” snapped out Tobin. “I want this man on a stage bound for the bay; then on a boat sailing for home. With thirty-two thousand in the 'spress office to meet him back home, and six hundred to travel on, he can go back like a king. That's his figger and he won't lower it. And the minute is most up.”

The miners were quite close, some carrying picks and shovels, and all betraying the madness of a gold stampede.

“I'll dig a little more,” suggested Pretty Soon, jumping down into the hole. “Maybe I'll uncover such a big nest—”

“Drop that pick and climb out! You've sold it to me for thirty-two thousand, six hundred dollars. These two men are witnesses to the bargain. We'll go back to town and I'll deposit the price to your credit in the express office,” shouted Phelps.

“Well, Jim, I 'low a bargain's a bargain. He took you up at the price named. Mebbe our young friend here,” and he glanced at Gilbert, “is thinking it's pretty works we didn't hold out for fifty thousand—”

“None of that! I bought at his figure. Here, Wilks, Thomas, Gardner! Stand guard over this claim. I've bought it. Now we'll fix up the other end of the business.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE WHISPERERS

WITH only a few hundred dollars on his person Pretty Soon took the stage and commenced the epochal journey home. Gilbert was depressed. Luck had favored the vagabond. His shiftless life had led him to pockets of gold. Then his sense of fair-play intervened and arraigned him before the brain cell which enthrones the Judge men called Conscience.

According to Old Misery the wandering prospector possessed the great virtue of being honest. He would not break his word once he gave it. Joseph Gilbert, well reared and thoroughly trusted, had used money not his own. The unhappy comparison made him so morose he told the mountain man he would take the mule and go on ahead, avoiding Nevada City.

Old Misery read something of the Vermonter's thoughts and kindly said:

“It was my new medicine that pulled Pretty Soon out of his mess and sent him back the biggest Injun in the home-tribe. Lawd! If it wa'n't for smothering in them places I like to go along just to hear the stories he'll tell. I mean to say, younker, my red medicine is aching to be at work. I can feel it tugging to bu'st loose, just like a young buf'ler pony in the fall hunt. Go along to camp and keep in mind how my medicine is sorter sizing you up and thinking how you can be helped.”

“Good-by. Try not to get drunk,” muttered Gilbert.

Old Misery was thoughtful for a bit after his young friend had left him. Them Tom Tobin came up, an anticipatory gleam in his bold eyes, and expressed himself by spitting on his hands and unfastening his buckskin shirt and starting to remove it.

“You little heyoka runt!” exclaimed Old Misery admiringly. “You still have war-dreams. But our little rinktum can wait a bit longer. I ain't in fettle just now. That younker got under my old hide. Lawd! but it was funny seeing him taking care of me, thinking I was drunk! That is; it was funny at first, then it was funny with tears in it. I don't know as it was so damned funny after all. No more than when a squaw goes up in the hills to yowl for her dead buck.”

“You're gifting old and soft,” growled Tobin. “You're backing down. You don't seem to sabe that that Illinoistown rumpus bu'sted up before it was finished.”

“It can wait a bit and be all the better for waiting, Tommy,” soothed Misery. “As I feel now a baker could slap my face and I'd take it without a word. No fun fighting with a man who feels like that. You see, the younker took care of me. Me. Watched over me and put me to bed. Why damn your iron hide I ain't been took care of since you dragged me, shot full of holes, from the 'Pache Pass fight and gambled my rifle and blankets away while I was gitting well!

“That touched me, Tommy, when you packed me from the pass and lost my property, but not so much as what the younker done. Of course you had to do it; but I didn't expect nothing from him. You'll have the fight I owe you, and it'll be a humdinger. If you make it a fine point we'll have to have it now, I s'pose, but I'm telling you I can't git much fun out of it to-day.”

“Wait till you feel more like then,” grumbled Tobin. “I don't fight with no sick men, or cripples. Just now you 'pear to be the one that's heyoka. Let's have a snort of whisky and then plug along to Nevada City.”

“I was sort of hankering to lay round till Phelps gits tired of digging,” mused Misery. “I went to some bother to fix things. Must be 'bout time for him to be knocking off work. You see, I wanted every one to think I was drunk and asleep afore I dared to sneak out in the dark and salt that place as she oughter be salted. I'd given the price of a prime bar to have seen and heard him when Pretty Soon uncovered my nuggets. But I knew if I was there I'd git to laffing and he'd s'pect something. In here.”

They entered the saloon where Gilbert had rescued the mountain man the night before. To the bartenders' surprise and great relief they were subdued and quiet in ordering drinks. They took much time in consuming their liquor—waiting. At last a man bawled out something down the street. It was picked up by another man and passed on. It was tossed from mouth to mouth and reached the saloon. The bartender ran to the window. He ran to the door as men emerged from houses and stores. Some were gesticulating and talking violently. Others were doubled over with laughter.

“She busted,” proudly whispered Old Misery.

“I think we're going to have some fun,” eagerly decided Tobin, turning his back to the bar.

A group of men halted before the saloon, jostled each other about and crowded inside. In the lead, wild of gaze, was Phelps. He was carrying a pick. Immediately behind him came his friends and henchmen. The rest of the little mob was made up of those who rejoiced on hearing some one had been tricked. They had laughed immoderately when Pretty Soon Jim bought the claim. Phelps strode up to the bar and glared wrathfully at the mountain men. Old Misery whistled like an elk and pretended to be afraid.

Phelps sternly accused him:

“You planned that game. You supplied the nuggets. You went out of your way to make an enemy of me.”

Old Misery gazed at him sadly and told Tobin: “Worked too long in the heat.”

“His good fortune has made him plumb heyoka,” gravely agreed Tobin. “Some folks git upset if they have a streak of luck. How's diggings, partner?”

“How's diggings?” passionately repeated Phelps. “You know damned well there ain't any. You 'n' your friend fixed it so's I'd be robbed of more'n thirty thousand dollars. You knew all along that claim had been salted. Can't make me believe you don't know who salted it.”

Old Misery rested an elbow on the bar, yawned, and told Tobin:

“I said it, Tom, when Pretty Soon Jim came bleating to us about buying a rich claim for twenty-six hundred dollars. Don't you remember how I says to Jim, 'Son, they've shifted the cut on you. The low-grade skunk who took your poor little twenty-six hundred dollars is worth a million and knows pay dirt backwards. But he likes money so much he'd cheat his poor, old, blind grandpap to git the price of a chaw of terbaccer.' You remember me saying that, right to Jim's long face. But 'tween you 'n' me, Tom, I never s'posed such a wakan gold-hunter as that million-dollar man's said to be, would ever turn 'round and buy a worthless claim back.”

“Never believed it myself, Misery. It shows he's just plumb heyoka. Back in the States they have places where they keep heyoka folks, I've heard. But we must humor him, Misery.”

Turning to Phelps he gently inquired: “How's it feel, partner, to find yourself sitting on a hornet you caught for some one else?”

“That's right, Tommy. Gentle him,” eagerly urged Old Misery.

A roar of laughter smothered Phelps' reply. He stood wrathful and impotent and waited for the noisy merriment to subside. He began to regret parading his loss. As his gaze swept over the sober faces of his friends, and the mocking countenances of those who were amused, he missed Gilbert. The young easterner had been at the claim when Pretty Soon Jim reluctantly sold it.

Steadying his voice he told Old Misery in an undertone, “You win this time, but I'll make it even Stephen.”

“Making war-talk, you dog?” growled Tobin hopefully.

Old Misery jammed his friend to one side and thrust his face close to the miner's and demanded:

“When? No time like now.”

Phelps grinned wolfishly but backed away, and reminded:

“I'm worth a cold million dollars. I'm too precious to myself to be hurt in a fight with a man that owns nothing but a tame bear. I won't fight less it's with a man worth as much as I be. But inside of a few days you'll admit it's even Stephen. Chew it over.”

“Meaning some of your friends will comb my friend,” murmured Tobin ominously.

“No, sir! He can live a million years before any friend of mine hurts a hair of his head. But after I've evened it all up he may feel sicker'n if I'd had him pay with his hide.”

Before either of the mountain men could digest this vague threat and make a suitable response he had slipped back into the crowd and, followed by his friends, was out in the street.

“Didn't dare raise me, nor even call, as Peters would say,” chuckled Old Misery. “Just tried a cheap bluff and skedaddled.”

To the men who remained he announced:

“Mighty queer, but I got a few nuggets, just like what your million-dollar man bought from Jim Pipps. They're not much good to me and if you're hankering for liquor here's the price.”

And he tossed a couple of nuggets on the bar and the crowd surged forward. But instead of reaching for bottles and glasses the men bunched and jostled in front of the bartender, staring at the tiny pieces of gold. Each man was instantly planning how he could be ahead of all others in profiting someway by the incident. Each had the same thought, secretly to trail the old mountain man and stake a claim.

But as wary, suspicious eyes met those of a neighbor each realized no one man could count the coup. Compacts were made with a sidelong glance: an alliance to secure the mountain man's secret without a word being spoken. Inside of fifteen seconds all personal ambitions were merged in mass intelligence and the unvoiced partnership was perfected.

Then the groups dissolved and became a long line of thirsty throats, and much badinage was exchanged. And there was general rejoicing that Phelps had been caught in his own trap. Many compliments were heaped upon Old Misery, and more than one man earnestly vowed he would “stand by him” if Phelps, through his retainers, attempted violence.

“If it comes to a fuss don't any of you clutter up the ground by trying to help,” warned Old Misery. “When I paint for battle I go it alone and hit everything in sight.”

“Cleverest bit of salting I ever see!” cried an Ohio veteran, and he struck his ragged hat on the bar to accent his statement. “Phelps would have smelled a rat if it had been ledge gold. He knows ledges.”

“And I'll bet this minute he's swallering his pride and is scheming to find out where the nuggets come from,” spoke up another. “If you need help in throwing him off the track just say the word, partner.”

“I will, and thank you all kindly,” gravely assured Old Misery. “Mebbe I could tell him just where I got the gold and mebbe I'd have to think a lot first. I've took gold from so many different towns and miners for meat and tamed animals. Prob'ly would tell him wrong even if I wanted to tell him right.”

Wise glances were exchanged. The line of drinkers believed the mountain man was throwing dust.

One man estimated:

“Must been nigh to six hundred dollers used for salt. Wouldn't 'a' believed a tamed wild animal would fetch such a good price.”

Old Misery snorted in disgust.

“What you don't know 'bout wild animal prices would make the canon of the Colorado look higher'n the Rocky Mountains,” he jeered. “Got more'n that for the cub I just sold at Nevada City. Fetched dollar-a-pound as a pet. For meat to eat he'd been worth only a hundred. When I raise a b'ar like Bill Williams I've raised a good fifteen hundred dollars. Been offered that for him, and I could send him East and git two thousand. I'm a animal-prospector.

“When I bag some panther kittens they're just so many ounces of dust. Turned an old bald eagle loose that I'd been offered fifty dollars for in Nevada City. Worth a hundred if sold at the bay.”

This silenced all efforts to dig into his secret but left the men skeptical. Tom Tobin, who had been gloomily considering his glass, edged up the bar a few feet. Old Misery instantly took the hint and shifted his position to keep close to him.

Tobin whispered: “They'll trail you.”

“I'll lose 'em at Nevada City to-night,” murmured Old Misery. “All they can do is to pile into Grass Holler, but they won't find nothing. Five of their best men have prospected the Holler up 'n' down 'n' across. It's a medicine-place. No one can find it. Need any nuggets?”

“Not if I have to dig 'em.”

“It ain't so awful hard if your will is strong. I'll sneak you there and turn you loose.”

“And dig 'em out?”

“Not by a damned sight! Think I'm a root-'n'-grass Injun? Let's move on.”

They were followed by the men as they left the saloon. On the street the group scattered but found business was taking each individual wherever the mountain men went. As the latter showed no disposition to leave the Valley the espionage became organized, and instead of twenty men chasing them about only two or three held the trail. These were frequently relieved. Old Misery was much amused at the miners' tactics. Tobin took it more seriously.

Late in the afternoon he warned:

“Phelps has organized an outfit. He's chipped in. Feller with the red hair is one of his men. It'll be a race 'tween his men and t'others.”

This suspicion was strengthened by a fight between the red-headed man and one of those who had rejoiced over Phelps' defeat. The former lost the battle and disappeared, but was immediately replaced by two of Phelps' followers. These wore weapons aggressively and put themselves in the path of the rival spies as if seeking combat. Misery and Tobin were hopeful that the two factions would soon clash and fill the street with bloody disputes; but again the power of gold was exemplified. The two Phelps adherents were observed hobnobbing with the Independents in a most amicable manner; and when the defeated red-headed man joined the group he was greeted as a brother.

In great disgust Tobin declared:

“Phelps isn't all heyoka. He's holding the ribbons and driving those fools in a double-hitch. And they're not keen enough to know that if they could light on your medicine-place his would be the only crowd to git the plunder. Might's well be traveling to Nevada City.”

As they set out for the four-mile walk three of the saloon group and two Phelps men suddenly discovered they had business in that direction. Before they were quit of the Valley they noticed a new man among their trailers. He had none of the dried, white mud of the local prospector on his boots and clothing, nor did his hands suggest an acquaintance with pick or shovel. He was with the Grass Valley citizens and yet was not of them. Old Misery felt uneasy for the first time since leaving his foot-hills camp. The stranger must be a representative of the Vigilance Committee. And yet he carried no weapons in sight, nor did he look like a gun-man. Misery called a halt and filled and lighted his pipe. The trailers came up and passed on ahead. The stranger halted near Old Misery and bent over to dust his shiny shoes with a spotless handkerchief.

“Got a message for you,” he informed the mountain man without glancing at him.

“Erhuh. Does he want to fight with knives or guns?” gently asked Misery.

“Friendly message. My name's Roger. I'm playing at the theater. Message is confidential. Mustn't be seen giving it, or they'd do me mischief. Don't pick it up till after I'm gone.”

“Let her flicker,” encouraged Old Misery, stooping to tie his moccasin.

“On the ground,” said Roger, and turning on his heel he slowly sauntered back to the Valley.

Tobin stepped to the small wad of paper and flirted it with his foot to within reach of his friend. Old Misery's fingers secured it, and rising they resumed their journey. Two of the spies were returning to meet them, pretending to be looking for something.

“What you lost?” innocently asked Old Misery.

“Knife, worse luck,” growled one of the men, who was retained by Phelps.

“What sort of a knife?”

“Buckhorn handle with a 'W' scratched on it. Wouldn't 'a' lost it for fifty dollars!”

Old Misery clapped Tobin on the shoulder and cried:

“Didn't I tell you it was dropped by some one going this way? And you was so danged sure it was dropped by some one bound for the Valley. Never say again my medicine ain't wakan. Stranger, you'll find that buckhorn knife, with a 'W' scratched on it, stuck in a tree, this side the road, 'bout quarter of a mile below here. My pard 'n' me couldn't agree, so I left it there for the owner to locate.”

The two men hesitated and exchanged embarrassed glances.

Then the alleged loser mumbled, “Thanks,” and walked on toward the Valley.

The other explained to the mountain men:

“Reckon there's no need of me going with him. One man can carry a knife without help.”

“Sure he can if one can lose a knife,” heartily agreed Tobin. “But it's a mighty fine show of brotherly love when a man'll drop his business and help hunt for a knife.”

“But it was a simon-pure buckhorn-handled knife with a 'W' scratched on it,” reminded Misery. “And that's different.”

The spy hastily said:

“Time I was hurrying along. Got to meet a man in a rush.”

And he made off ahead of them.

Old Misery glanced back and chuckled:

“There's t'other feller. We oughter slow down and make him show us the knife.”

But the spy behind them had no intention of overtaking them, and when they halted, he did likewise.

Thus with watchers behind and ahead the two entered Nevada City. Tobin urged:

“Let's drop in somewhere and see what that writing is the man give you. Mebbe it's a witch-powder.”

“In a minute or two. We'll open it in Peters' room. Probably something he'll like to see.”

Giving no heed to their trailers they entered the Hotel de Paris and ascended to Mr. Peters' room.

The gambler opened the door and returned to bed, explaining:

“Had a long night. Lasted well into the morning. Two men from the bay. Cost me seven hundred dollars to learn they're looking for some one. They believe they're hot on his trail. How did your game pan out?”

Old Misery told him, and without giving him time to finish his laughing-spell he produced the wad of paper and informed:

“A stranger, a play-acting feller, slipped this into my hand in Grass Valley. Read it out loud to Tommy 'n' me.”

Mr. Peters smoothed out the paper and smiled on observing the neat chirography of a woman. He grinned broadly as he caught the aroma of some delicate scent. But once he perused the few lines his face grew grave and he swore softly.

“Listen,” he said; and lowering his voice almost to a whisper he read:

“Some one has told Phelps that Mr. Gilbert was in the El Dorado the night Murieta was there. It may mean nothing, or much. I understand you are his friend.”

The mountain men exchanged startled glances, and Tobin asked:

“Who wrote it?”

“There's no name hitched to it. But a woman wrote it,” replied Peters.

Old Misery said: “The younker knew Roger and the Montez woman. Come up on the boat to Sacramento with 'em. Roger is in the woman's play-acting outfit.”

“And it's believed Lola Montez will marry Phelps and his million,” quickly informed Mr. Peters. “So, Phelps told her. But who told Phelps?”

Old Misery had no idea.

“I'll have to find the younker and take him over the ridge,” he decided.

Mr. Peters slid out of bed and hurriedly began dressing.

“You mean young Gilbert's in town?” he cried as he slipped on his waistcoat and dropped a brace of derringers into the wide pockets.

“Went on ahead with a mule-load of grub this morning. Didn't come here. We'll overtake him afore he makes Grass Holler.”

“Then you should be traveling without any delay. The two men from the bay have hit the trail. If they learn as much as is in this note he'll have to go before the committee. And I'm afraid.”

Tobin spoke up and reminded:

“A parcel of men have been trailing us. They're curious-like to find out where Misery gits his nuggets. If we quit here before dark they'll trail us clear up to the hills.”

“Hell! Why did you have to show more nuggets?” snapped Mr. Peters. “You can't wait. Every minute is precious. Any minute may be the minute. I smelled trouble in that poker game last night. But I didn't think it was so close. Some one told Phelps the boy was in the gambling place. Told him mighty recent. He's told the woman.

“If word gets to the men from the bay— Why, they may know it even now! They may be on their way to your camp. You can't wait till dark, Misery. See here: this is how we will play the hand. Tobin is to go down-stairs and order a big dinner for the three of us. He'll talk loud. Then he'll go to the bar and order three drinks and say we'll be right down. The Grass Valley men will keep close to him.”

“And then what?” asked Tobin.

“That's all. You stick to the bar as long as they stick. By and by I'll look you up.”

“I read the signs. Old Misery is to hit the trail and I'm to stay behind and throw dust. See you up north sometime, old hoss, and settle our little difficulty.”

“After this trouble's over we'll have our fun if I have to travel to Hudson's Bay. Don't let anybody damage you afore we meet up again, you little runt.”

Tobin left the room to carry out his part of the plan. Mr. Peters stood in the doorway until he heard the order given for the dinner, the stentorian voice carrying far and suggesting whisky-exhilaration.

For good measure Tobin was loudly proclaiming:

“Make it the best. All the fixings. My pard, Old Misery, can buy this lodge and give it away and still have lots of ponies left.”

Motioning for Misery to remain, Mr. Peters closed the door. He was gone only a few minutes and when he returned he was composedly shuffling a stack of gold pieces from hand to hand, much as he would shuffle cards, and his broad face was placid and benevolent.

In a whisper he informed:

“The way is clear out the back of the house. Sent a friend to the bar and he reports Tobin is on duty and drinking with the Grass Valley men and acting very drunk. Now go, and don't bring the youngster down this way again. If it was anything except helping Murieta—”

“He's going plumb over the Sierra if it bu'sts up my camp. Took care of me last night like I was a baby. Tell Tom he won't lose anything by letting our fight wait— Little runt thinks I bit him a-purpose!”

Mr. Peters peered up and down the hall and then escorted Misery to the back-stairs and down to the kitchen.

“The help are backing my game. Not one will blab. Through the back door and good luck. If you are trailed you'll have to throw them off the track best you can.”

“You're a white man, Peters. I won't forget,” mumbled the mountain man; and he glided through the kitchen apparently unnoticed while the gambler returned to his room and threw himself on the bed.

Misery cleared the town without discovering any signs of the Grass Valley men. For several miles he walked rapidly, then slowed his pace, confident none was pursuing him. He came to a halt while passing through Willow Valley as a riderless horse rounded a bush grown bend, and came toward him. The animal was in a lather and had galloped some distance, and was betraying signs of weariness.

The mountain man stood in the narrow road and the animal slowed down and attempted to go around him. Quick as a panther the mountain man had him by the nose and in the next moment was in the saddle.

“Ching-a-ling's hoss, or I'm a liar!” muttered Misery as he quieted the animal. “No such good luck that the yaller-devil's been thrown and bu'sted his head. Now to save my legs a bit.”

And he reined the horse about and rode him up the valley. He covered several miles, then reined in on beholding a man walking toward him.

It was Ching-a-ling and he had his left arm in a sling improvised from a handkerchief.

Sliding to the ground Old Misery called out:

“Here's your nag. Better not ride if you can't keep the saddle.”

Ching-a-ling swore fluently in Spanish; then said: “I was not thrown, Senor Misery. I was afoot when this spawn of the devil ran away.”

“Thought you was tossed and hurt your arm. There's blood on the hanker. Who done it?”

Ching-a-ling gritted his teeth, then confessed:

“That hell-cat, Maria. Knifed me without any reason.”

“She had a reason. You talk straight, or I'll finish what she commenced,” growled the mountain man, his frosty eyes displaying lurid lights. “You was troubling her, damn you!”

“I say no, Senor Misery!” cried Ching-a-ling, his eyes watching the hand resting on the belt-knife. “That is not the way to talk to Manuel Vesequio. I did but ask the girl to marry me. Is that a crime? Is a man to be killed every time he asks a woman to become his wife?”

“Only once as a rule. But damn your nerve! You've got a Chinese girl for a wife already. Think you can fill your lodge with squaws?”

“It is not so,” shrilly denied the breed. “My wife has left me. She took the child and my little savings and went to San Francisco, where she is now hiding in some Dupont Street house. I shall never see her again. I am free to marry.”

“But not to marry Maria, you scum. Ever bother her again and I'll cut your arms off in the Dakota way. Now crawl on that hoss and show dust down the road.”

Ching-a-ling mounted, and turned his brownish-yellow face to stare down at the mountain man for a moment.

Then he softly said:

“But free to marry Ana Benites, perhaps. Good enough for her, perhaps.”

Before Old Misery could make reply the long spurs cruelly raked the tired animal, causing him to squeal in pain and gallop madly down the creek.

Old Misery instinctively threw up his rifle; then lowered it and mused:

“Just his wild talk. Sore's a burnt pup. He's too scared of Murieta to give the child away. Lawdy! But she's a spit-fire! What an old fool I was I didn't find out where he met her. She's prob'ly bound for Grass Valley to see the play-acting. I'll meet her and mebbe she'll talk.”

Gilbert traveled very leisurely and at noon made a long halt while he ate his dinner and allowed the mule to graze. Being ignorant of the packer's art he had not ventured to remove the load of provisions and the weight of the same being light the mule had made only half a dozen attempts to dislodge it by rolling.

“Lucky there's no eggs in it,” he told himself after correcting the mule for what proved to be the last time.

He tried to make himself believe he was waiting for the mule to rest, and all the while he knew he was lonely and was hoping the mountain men would be overtaking him before he made the night camp. At last he saw a figure down the trail and his hopes went up. Then he discovered the newcomer was a woman and something told him it was Maria.

Remembering their last meeting he was embarrassed and almost wished she had not overtaken him. She came up the slope with her easy, gliding step and nodded coolly. At first he believed she was angry with him and would have none of his company. Instantly he desired to break down her prejudice and vindicate himself.

“I forgot to tell Old Misery you were down in the Valley yesterday,” he greeted.

She halted, seated herself on a rock, and replied:

“Maria was not in Senor Gilbert's thoughts. He is too beeg a cabellero to theenk of women.”

“You know that's not true, Maria. I didn't see much of Mr. Misery. He went to bed very early—”

“Drunk,” she listlessly supplied.

“And this morning he was busy with two friends, strangers to me, and sent me on ahead with the mule.”

“You have not unpacked. That is ver' wrong,” she gravely remarked.

“Afraid I couldn't get the stuff back so it would stay. Too late now as I must be going. But he supposed you were coming down to-day. You didn't look him up and I didn't know. Well, it was your own business. So I didn't tell him. I had to look after him a bit.”

An incredulous smile twisted her red lips; then her eyes were hard as she reminded:

“I thought our gran' caballero was taking care of the Montez woman.”

“Nonsense! She's good as married to Phelps, the mining man.”

Her eyes grew very big and round at this; and for a count of five she stared at him fixedly. Her next move startled him. From her garter she pulled a slender knife and stabbed it several times into the earth. He watched her in amazement. Without glancing at him she quietly explained:

“A snake was in my path. I cut his arm.”

“Snakes don't have arms,” he began; then decided she must be speaking in metaphor, and added, “Some man bothered you? By George, Maria! Wish I'd been there! I'd have fixed him.”

“You?” she murmured, and laughed silently.

To his consternation her mood changed and she burst into a violent spell of weeping. Dropping the knife she bowed her head in her hands, and her slim body was racked with sobs until the coils of blue-black hair tumbled over her shoulders.

“Good heavens, Maria! What's the matter?” he gasped.

“Oh, I am a ver' bad girl. I have done a ver' great wrong. Senor Gilbert, you mus' go away.”

“If you insist,” he dully agreed. “But we're both traveling to Grass Hollow. I was hoping we might make it together.”

“That is not of what I speak,” she moaned. “You mus' go far away from Grass Hollow. Something says that men at the bay will soon know Senor Gilbert was in the El Dorado that night. The bay has a ver' long arm. In the hand is a noose. It is best Senor Gilbert goes away.”

“But I don't understand,” he cried, alarmed and bewildered. “It's impossible people in San Francisco should know I am here. If any one found out the truth Mr. Peters at Nevada City would hear it and let us know. Old Misery would surely know in time to warn me. Your nerves are unstrung, Maria. Old Misery will be along to-night. Plenty of time for him to hide me if any one tries to find me.”

His talk restored his confidence somewhat. Grass Hollow seemed to be very remote from the world. Reason told him danger could not be imminent without his friends discovering it. If there had been any risk Old Misery would never have permitted him to go down to the Valley. And yet he was uneasy.

She interrupted his musing by rising and saying:

“We mus' be going on. We mus' camp high up. This is too near Nevada City.”

And she replaced the knife, deftly arranged her hair and started on ahead.

Gilbert pulled up the picket pin and led the mule. She seemed to be in haste and often glanced over her shoulder, looking beyond him and down the rough way. He called after her to learn if she had eaten.

Her reply was:

“Faster! faster! Something tells me there is ver' much danger.”

Wishing Old Misery would overtake them, but fearing the mountain man was indulging in a spree, the young man's heart was heavy as he plodded along behind the girl. Their shadows grew longer and longer and stretched far up the slope ahead, and still the girl continued to lead the way. When she did halt and announced they would camp for the night Gilbert discovered they were in the ravine where the miners had overtaken him and Misery and near the spot where Reelfoot Williams had abandoned his purpose of holding them up. There was the little cabin where he had spent the night. He told her to make it her quarters and carried his own blankets to it. But she had left her own blankets there on the down-trip. While she was in the cabin he made afire and prepared to cook the evening meal. She joined him, strangely humbled, but insistent on cooking the evening meal.

“You are unhappy, Maria. I'm sorry,” he told her after they had eaten in silence.

“Ver' unhappy. I have done wrong,” she gravely replied.

A soft step sounded in the darkness beyond the fire-glow. The girl gave a thin scream and sprang to her feet, the slender blade clutched in her small hand. Gilbert was incapable of moving because of astonishment at the unexpected presence just beyond the flickering light. A chaos of unfinished questions surged through his mind. How had they found him so quickly? What would they do? Should he attempt flight in the darkness.

“That's right. Kill me. Kill every one,” called out the mountain man's voice. “I've hoofed it faster'n Fremont's lost outfit did, trying to overtake you two. Heave the knife and nail me.”

“Old Misery! Good!” cried Gilbert, at last becoming coherent. Then, ashamed of his first emotions, he endeavored to appear composed, and added, “Where's Tobin?”

The mountain man emerged from the darkness and grinned at the erect, alert figure of the girl.

“Tobin's skeered of me. Knows I'm going to lick him some day. Stayed behind. Maria, either use that weepin or put it up. And s'pose you tell me 'bout knifing Ching-i-ling. Met him with his arm in a sling.”

The knife vanished and the girl was softly explaining:

“He spoke ver' bad. One mus' not let some things be said. Is it not?”

“Reckon that's so. I'll cut his throat if he bothers you again. Younker, I've got a bad talk for you. Some one has blabbed in Grass Valley that you was in the El Dorado that night. We may have to go over the ridge.”

This bald announcement was like a band of ice closing about Gilbert's heart. He never really had believed he would be connected with the bandit's escape from the gambling-hall.

While he was trying to regain control of himself Old Misery was saying to the girl:

“Sorter sprised to see you here. Late to be starting for Grass Valley.”

“I was in Grass Valley yesterday. I am on my way back to Grass Hollow,” she sullenly told him.

The mountain man eyed her sharply, but only remarked:

“You oughter gone along with us. Never know you was there.”

Again she was quick to confess, saying—

“Senor Gilbert saw me and talked with me.”

“I didn't tell you, sir, because you'd been—having a good time. Then Tobin and Pipps arrived and the claim was bought back by Phelps, and everything was so hurried I forgot it.”

“It don't matter,” said Old Misery, his voice sounding absent-minded. “Maria's a free white. How did you like the play-acting, Maria?”

She clicked her small teeth and replied: “I am ver' queer. I did not go in.”

“That's tarnal strange. Went way down there a-purpose to see it, and then didn't. They say that Montez woman's a hum-dinger. She's going to marry Phelps.”

Without a word the girl turned and ran swiftly to the deserted cabin and closed the rickety door after her.

Old Misery idly fed some sticks to the coals and mused: “Beats all hell how many queer notions can be crammed into one white woman's head. Never can guess what that child will do next. Younker, know of any one in Grass Valley who'd be likely to know you was in the El Dorado?”

Gilbert wrinkled his brows and pondered over the question. Old Misery was the only one in Grass Valley who had knowledge of that episode except himself, and, of course, the girl Maria.

“I can think of no one. I can't imagine how any one could know it.”

“But some one does,” informed Misery, lowering his voice. “The Montez woman sent me a writing that Phelps told her. But how could he know? Some one had to tell him afore he could tell the woman. Last thing he said to me was that he'd even up for my salting that claim; and he was careful to say he wouldn't make a move against me pussonally. Sounded sorter blind. Seems clear now. But who told him? Why should he tell the Montez woman? Why did she tell me? There's three puzzlers for you to chaw over. Wish Bill Williams was here to help us.”

Despite his efforts to oust the suspicion Gilbert found himself realizing that he knew the answer to each of the three queries. And his gaze wandered toward the cabin. Passionate, and unstable as she was wilful, Maria had betrayed him. She had told Phelps the sinister truth while wrought up by jealousy.

Phelps, while suffering from the same incentive, had told the Montez woman. For some reason, perhaps because she could not assume the responsibility of sending a man to the noose, the actress had sent the warning through Old Misery. Yet Gilbert could not feel angry toward the girl. She was irresponsible as a child.

He repeated: “I can't imagine how any one in the Valley could have known the truth.”

“A blind trail,” grumbled the mountain man. “If I knew where it begun I might figger where it would end. We'll sleep on it and perhaps my new medicine will have the answer for me in the morning. You can sleep sound. You're safe this night.”

The sun was up when the two men awoke. Old Misery was impatient to be off, but Gilbert insisted they allow the girl to finish her sleep. The mountain man's reply was to walk to the cabin and rap smartly on the door. Then he pushed it open.

After a glance he turned and called out to Gilbert:

“Vamoosed through the winder. Knew she couldn't be in there sleeping with all them fat squirrels hooting over the roof. Can't make out what's got into her. Wonder if Tom Tobin is still at the bar with them fools from Grass Valley. He's a master hand with a bottle. Haven't yet thought of any one who could 'a' told Phelps about you?”

“Haven't an idea. Let's eat and be moving.”

And Gilbert could not keep his gaze from wandering down the ravine as he spoke. He was beginning to experience the fears of the hunted. Old Misery quickly rekindled the fire, cooked meat and made coffee.

When they sat down to eat he remarked:

“When you took on with my outfit you did as Peters said, told me everything. Sure you've kept up that habit, younker?”

“Everything that matters,” muttered Gilbert, but coloring furiously.

“I was wondering how that Montez woman was interested enough to send that warning,” mused Old Misery. “My new medicine has been prodding me to give it some thought.”

In a sudden burst of confidence Gilbert confessed his meeting with her and Phelps' jealousy.

“It meant nothing to me, or to her. She simply permitted me to walk with her to her boarding-house,” he insisted.

Old Misery prompted: “Maria must 'a' known about it. Mebbe she saw you two together.”

“I don't think so,” Gilbert stubbornly lied.

“Mortal queer. Phelps told the woman so she wouldn't smile on you any more. I've been thinking it was to git even with me. But he'd done it anyway to git rid of you. But who told him? Four persons know you was in the El Dorado: Peters, me, yourself, and Maria. The three of us was in Grass Valley yesterday. Younker, I never blabbed.

“If I was drunk as a b'iled Owl I couldn't 'a' done it. You didn't, not being plumb heyoka yet. Cabin door closed. Maria gone through the winder. Gone without waiting for us. Had a queer way of quitting our fire last night. Younker, you mean well, but you're a poor liar. Maria said you talked with her in Grass Valley.”

“It was nothing. We happened to meet—”

“And she got powerful mad at something, and that's why she wouldn't go and see the play-acting,” composedly continued the mountain man. “When she's r'iled 'bout so much she'd do most anything. Phelps saw you and the woman together. So did the girl. Then she saw Phelps watching. That settled your hash with her: she held Phelps up and told him about the El Dorado.”

“We don't know that. It's all guesswork,” feebly insisted Gilbert.

“And that's what my new medicine was trying to ding through my old head last night while you was asleep and that poor child was crawling through the winder. To make a real muss it takes a woman.”

Without further words he hurriedly packed the provisions on the mule and they took up their journey to the hidden hollow. They left the ravine and climbed an other bench and halted to examine the country below. A faint call caused the mountain man to shade his eyes and Gilbert to tremble with fresh fear.

“Just glimpsed him as he passed through the opening,” muttered the mountain man. “Rides alone. He'll show up again in a minute where the trail bends to make this level.”

Gilbert was for hurrying on but Old Misery shook his head.

“No danger from one man,” he growled. “There he comes! Sighted us afore we see him. He's signaling us to hold up.”

The horseman now was in full view, his horse making rather hard work of the path to the bench. He waved a big black hat, and the sun turned the brim of it into a circle of fire.

“Mexican. Got buttons of silver strung 'round his hat. Well, I'm always ready to listen to a talk.”

Following the zigzag path the tired horse labored up the slope.

Gilbert saw the man wore a bandage on his hand and wrist and warned, “It's Ching-a-ling!”

“No. Fall back and tree yourself. He brings a talk, but—”

He did not bother to finish. Standing behind the mule, with his rifle ready to shoot across the pack he raised a hand for the rider to stop at a distance of thirty feet.

The man slipped his hand out of the bandage and reined in.

“Three-fingered Jack!” softly exclaimed Old Misery.

Then in a loud voice, and speaking in Spanish, he demanded:

“What does Manuel Garcia want up here, where only eagles live?”

“He rides for one who is the strongest eagle of all,” promptly replied Joaquin Murieta's lieutenant. “You are the man called Old Misery?”

“I am that man. What talk do you bring to me?”

“A talk about Ana Benites.”

“Open your talk. This is no place for Manuel Garcia to rest his horse.”

“A dog has whispered Ana Benites' name in Nevada City,” hissed the Mexican. “He said she is called 'Maria.' Nevada City says a girl called Maria lives in your mountain camp. Americanos from San Francisco have heard the talk in Nevada. My horse is nearly dead in running to keep ahead of them.”

“Then the girl must go to Mexico. California is too small to hold her. I will send her to Mexico where she will be safe. Now give me the name of the man who told her name.”

And the mountain man's eyes flamed with a terrible purpose.

“Welcome to the name, Senor of the Sierra. But it will do you no good. There will be no names where he will be gone before you can take the girl to the Mexican line and return to look for him. He calls himself Manuel Vesequio. You call him Ching-a-ling. He was one of our spies. He has betrayed Ana Benites and shall die very soon. Just now men guard him against us; but Soon, very soon, he shall lose his head. Adios, senors.”

And nodding toward the tree where Gilbert was hiding he thrust his crippled hand through the bandage that concealed his loss of digits, pivoted his horse and plunged down the slope into a thick growth.

For a minute the mountain man was so beside himself with rage at the breed's treachery that he could not talk intelligibly.

Finally he mastered his wrath and said:

“I killed one of Joaquin's best men at the bay— That night. I'll kill him if I git a chance. They've overlooked my killing Scar-Face Luis because I was good to the girl. While she was in the Hollow she was a good girl, else I'd never gone to the bay to hunt for her and fetch her back. I wanted her to quit being Ana Benites and foller a honest trail. Now she must go to Mexico.

“And, younker, that damned Ching-a-ling is the one that sends her to Mexico. I told him what would happen if he bothered her again. I'll pay what I owe him. His mad made him heyoka. Made him forgit that Joaquin probably had other spies in Nevada City. For Three Fingered Jack to hear about it and have time to catch up with us shows a good-sized band of the robbers was near Nevada City, and that some spy didn't lose any time in taking word to 'em. Ching-a-ling killed hisself when he blabbed about Ana Benites. It may be me, or it may be one of Murieta's men that gits him. It don't make much difference which, 'cause he's good as dead.

“Now we'll push on afore some one rides up with word that Weymouth Mass is wanted by some one for finding a gold mine; or that somebody is after Bill Williams' pelt. Hell of a name my camp in Grass Holler is gitting. With so much to 'splain mebbe it's high time I was pulling out. One way of dodging trouble is move fast and always keep ahead of it. Mebbe I've been on this side the ridge too long

CHAPTER IX

OLD MIGUEL GOES TO TOWN

OLD MISERY'S first act on arriving at Grass Hollow was to produce a new suit of buckskin from a secret cache.

This he presented to Gilbert, saying:

“Time you quit them store clothes. If it needs fixing over I can do it after a fashion. If it's a fussy job Maria can do it fine.”

The Vermonter was slim and wiry of build and about the mountain man's height, and when he emerged from his cabin one would have said the suit was made for him.

“Reg'lar mountain man after your h'ar grows out way natur' planned for it to,” declared Old Misery, as he gazed approvingly at the trim, picturesque figure. “But it'll be some time afore your whiskers git strong.”

And perhaps his thoughts flashed back across the many years to the time when all west of the Mississippi was practically an unknown country, and when he proudly was wearing his first suit of buckskin. As his old eyes grew warm perhaps it was himself he saw, youthful and greedily curious, and entering upon the strange faring that was to consume the remainder of his life.

While Gilbert walked about alone to get used to his new garments Old Misery proceeded to Miguel's cabin and whistled like an elk. Unless requested to do so he never passed through the dark doorway. Old Miguel came out, his big hat drawn well forward. Framed in the doorway behind him and looking over his shoulder, stood the girl Maria.

Bowing low, the old Mexican greeted:

“The voice of Senor Comandante calls. His servant obeys. It is good to hear his voice again.”

“Miguel, Time deals us new cards, and I find travel in them,” began Old Misery speaking in Spanish. “My new road-medicine tells me your granddaughter must go to Mexico at once, and must stay there.”

The girl gave a little cry and advanced to her grandfather's side.

“She is a bad girl again?” hissed the old man. “What has she done now, Senor Comandante?”

“She is a good girl and has done nothing,” promptly replied the mountain man. “But a snake has told men down below that she is Ana Benites. Manuel Garcia of the crippled hand risked his life to bring word for me to send her from this place.”

Old Miguel remained silent for a minute, his head bowed, his wrinkled face hidden by the broad hat-brim.

Then he threw up his head, and when he spoke his voice was as soft and caressing as a woman's, and he asked:

“The name of the snake, Senor Comandante? It is good for us to know so we may guard against him while on the way to Old Mexico.”

“He calls himself 'Manuel Vesequio.' We call him “Ching-a-ling.'”

The old Mexican spat.

The girl shrilly cried: “He is mad to tell my name! When he spoke the two words he talked his head off his shoulders!”

“So Three-Fingered Jack allowed,” said the mountain man, reverting to English. “He was awfully heyoka when he forgot he was Joaquin Murieta's spy and betrayed you.”

“Hush, thou foolish, little one,” gently rebuked Miguel to the girl. “This is time for men to talk. You shall not be taken.”

Then to Old Misery: “Senor Comandante, your words ever have been so many kindnesses to me and this child. You have wished her well; you have given me shelter so I might die in peace. You have left it to the good God to judge me and mine. I am nearly blind. I can only feel the years pass. But it is good to die where one was born. The grass and the trees and the streams I knew when a young man, all call me. I am anxious to start. How much time have we?”

“A few hours—a few days—I do not know. Let the girl and the young Americano pack food on the mule. Let her lead you two men to a place up the ridge she knows well—a secret place where I have found nuggets of gold. I will wait here for Senor Weymouth and the sailor. When they come in I will make a smoke. She will lead you along the shoulders of the mountains. She knows the trail. After explaining to Senor Weymouth he and I will overtake you.”

“Madre de Diós! Why this going up and coming down? Why must we have the Americanos?” cried Miguel.

“My young friend also has his name spoken. He is talked about. It is known how he helped Joaquin Murieta escape in San Francisco. Men will come to get him. I must take him over the ridge. I can not go with you. Senor Weymouth and his friend shall go with you until you are out of danger. But you must keep to the shoulders of the mountains. That is why you must hide in the little basin up the ridge until Senor Weymouth comes in.”

As he talked he looked at Miguel, avoiding the girl's horrified face. The high color of her cheeks faded to old ivory as she realized her protector must have learned of her impetuous treachery. But by no glance did the mountain man intimate he knew the truth.

“God is good,” piously said Miguel. “Let it be so. When the mule is packed we will start.”

As he bowed and backed through the door he caught the girl by the arm and drew her inside and said something in a low, hurried voice. She cried out, as if protesting; then agreed. And by the time Old Misery had rejoined Gilbert the girl was running after him.

“I come to tell Senor Gilbert there is no place in the pines now where he can not walk,” she breathlessly announced.

“It doesn't matter, Maria,” he gloomily replied. “Old Misery tells me we all are to leave here at once.”

“But it mus' be seen,” she insisted. “It is what you call 'medicine.'”

The last was for the mountain man's benefit, for turning to him she added:

“The medicine of El Carpentero.”

Old Misery's interest was pricked through.

Despite the danger of loitering he eagerly exclaimed:

“Let's take a look. A bird-medicine? Cheyennes have some mighty strong bird-medicine, younker. Never dreamed old Miguel was playing up a bird-medicine. But it's just the kind in the matter of fast traveling. Go ahead, you streak of scarlet.”

The girl danced the way into the pines, vanishing and reappearing between the giant boles, the red of her shoes and stockings contrasted vividly with the floor of brown needles, and her elusive leadership reminded Gilbert of wood-nymphs and other fairy people.

She started up the slope, and the mountain man called to her:

“No time for sight-seeing. What you making up there for?”

The girl veered to the left and bore back toward her cabin. She halted directly back of the cabin, and this time Gilbert found no gnome-like figure barring his close approach to the group of big pines.

Old Misery was impatient for Miguel and the young people to be traveling away from the hollow.

She interrupted his brusk reminders by crying:

“Is not that the work of a greedy one? El Carpentero? But where is Senor Robber Squirrel?”

And she pointed to several of the big pines, whose smooth sections of bark up to a height of five feet appeared to be studded with pegs.

“Woodpeckers that'll store nuts so close to the ground must be heyoka,” grumbled Old Misery. “Come, come, you streak of scarlet! If it's a bird-medicine show how it works. I knew a Cheyenne man who had a master strong swallow-medicine. Is this a woodpecker-medicine?

The girl reached down and drew the slender knife from her garter and advanced to a tree, removed the cup of an acorn, and smiled triumphantly over her shoulder at the men.

“Plumb heyoka!” exclaimed Old Misery. “There ain't no nut! Fool bird forgot to put in a nut!”

“This is the nut, Senor Comandante,” she replied. And scooping the point of her blade into the bark she removed a small nugget of gold.

Very proudly she explained: “My wicked old grandfather is a ver' wise caballero. When his eyes were good he had seen El Carpentero store nuts in trees. The gold he brought to this hollow is in these trees. He tells me to dig them out to take to Mexico.”

“Well, dog my cats!” spluttered Old Misery in disgust. “And I was never wakan 'nough to notice the carpenter and the squirrels never done any fighting in here! I s'posed it was a medicine-place, and kept clear. And yet, at a distance I've noticed the trees was pitted with what looked to be heads of acorns. Never s'pected why Miguel borrered my auger. Lawd! But wouldn't Tom Tobin laff if he knew I was such a thick-head!If they grow any thicker heads in Vermont, younker, I'm sorry for 'em. Take my knife and git to work. We oughter be beating a rawhide drum and singing our travel-song like a Kiowy.”

Gilbert was nervous over the delay and momentarily expected a harsh voice to call out for him to put up his hands. He grabbed the long knife and fell to work aiding the girl. And, whereas he was awkward and her fingers were nimble, he was surprised to find he was removing two nuggets to her one. As he excavated the treasure he was remembering the gold was loot and doubtless blood-stained.

He knew old Miguel had lived outside the law and had forayed stirrup to stirrup with wicked men. Any nugget he dropped into the buckskin bag at the girl's girdle might stand for a murder; and he found himself loath to touch them, and glancing at his fingers to see if they left a stain. She worked as daintily as if handling wedding-china.

He found himself casting her side-glances and marveling how one guilty of treachery and now standing in imminent peril of breaking her own slim neck could be so blithe and merry. She spilled some of the nuggets and laughed shrilly as she dropped on her knees and lost minutes hunting for them.

Old Misery, reclining on the brown needles and smoking his pipe, watched her with puzzled eyes. Her merriment in the presence of the man she had betrayed was beyond his comprehension. Then he grew annoyed and a bit worried at the time required in recovering the nuggets.

He rose and roughly announced: “No more of this, Maria. We ain't at the rendezvous in Pierre's Hole, cel'brating the close of the beaver season. T'other night I dreamed of bloody foot-prints— Yet that couldn't 'a' been it— They was leading away from the holler and down the ridge. Come, come! Git to work packing the mule, Maria. If there's any gold you've overlooked your grandfather can set the price and I'll make it up with honest nuggets.” And he started for the opening.

“Jus' one leetle minute, Senor Comandante,” she pleaded. “Jus' one more!”

And she rose on tiptoe and tried to reach a cache. Nervous to be with the mountain man and on his way up the ridge, Gilbert attempted to secure the nugget for her, but she persisted, and told him:

“Hold me up a bit, Senor Gilbert. I am not very heavy.”

He easily lifted her and held her while she removed the topmost nugget.

As she lightly dropped back to the needles she explained:

“The first my grandfather hid. He jumped up like a monkey and caught the stub of the branch and made the hole with one hand. Hees eyes were better then.”

“Yes, yes,” he impatiently muttered. “But let's be going.”

“I wanted Senor Comandante to go away so I could say: “Forgeeve. I am ver' sorry! I am a ver' bad girl. It is in my blood to hate where I love.'”

“It's all right,” he mumbled. “I didn't tell. He guessed it all after you ran away from the cabin. You're all right, Maria; but for God's sake let's get out of this trap!”

“Come along! Come along!” harshly called the mountain man. “Want them to be piling in here and bagging you two like a brace of quails?”

“It was not for the gold, but ask you to forgeeve,” she whispered, as they made to obey the summons; and she hurled the last nugget among the trees and walked with bowed head before him.

Old Misery was making a selection from the supplies brought from Grass Valley. Without waiting to be told the girl brought up the mule and deftly arranged the small pack, to which the mountain man added a generous supply of blankets. When all was ready he ordered:

“Go inside, Maria, and get your grandpap.”

She was gone several minutes and Misery was softly cursing when she reappeared alone and announced—

“Senor Comandante, he is not in there.”

“Damn a fiddle!” the mountain man exploded. “Take you all this time to see that cabin was empty? But where is he? In all the time he's lived here he's stuck like beaver-tail glue to that cabin. Gone? Call him! You can call him, can't you?”

She raised her voice in a shrill ululating cry, but though they waited and she repeated the signal several times old Miguel failed to show himself. The mountain man was worried and angry.

“Pretty works!” he growled. “Howsomever, he ain't wanted by any committee—yet. We must make a start. I reckon he'll come back here. I'll come down and fetch him. But of all the cussed notions for a blind man to take! He's heyoka.”

“Maybe he started up the hollow,” suggested the girl. “His eyes are ver' poor, but his feet can follow a trail. In the cabin he asked where we would go and I said up this valley. We will find him somewhere ahead. Is it not?”

Fuming and fretting at the unaccountable disappearance of the Mexican, the mountain man aroused Bill Williams from his lair under the ledge and took the lead. But they saw no signs of old Miguel. Now feeling safe against a surprise visit, Misery halted and said:

“See here, younkers. That old fool's plumb lost. If he come this far he tried to leave the valley and he couldn't find any path. Feet couldn't tell him anything. Maria, you know the way to the basin. Take Double-Time up there. I'll come along soon. Bill Williams will go along with you—Bill, if they need any help you lend 'em a paw.”

“Beel Williams will make a good duenna,” she laughingly replied.

And the two men wondered that she could accept the disappearance of her grandfather so lightly.

“Go ahead!" shortly commanded Old Misery.

But as the girl led the mule forward the mountain man caught Gilbert's sleeve and hoarsely whispered:

“You must think for both. She's only a little child in the form of a woman.”

“God forbid I should ever forget. I'm not as bad as that.”

“You're all right; but sometimes a man gits heyoka if he looks too long at a new moon, or into a squaw's eyes. But you're all right. Make no smokes—hark!”

The girl already had heard it and had abandoned the mule to efface herself behind a tree. Old Misery motioned for Gilbert to seek a similar hiding-place. Then he ran ahead and stood by the mule. A loud voice, sounding below them and on their left, became more audible. The mountain man's figure lost its rigidity, and in deep relief he cried:

“Just the fellers I've been hankering to see! Lawd! But ain't he lacing it to Sailor Ben!”

Now the speech of Weymouth Mass was growing intelligible, and for one so self-contained his remarks to the sailor evidenced anger.

“You worthless hunk!” boomed the deep voice. “I'll bleed you white but what I get the rum out of your veins. Just as we were about to strike it you have to pretend your luck is calling you back to Grass Hollow. You'll get no rum there, and you'll get no chance to sneak away down to the towns. I'll break both your bandy legs before I'll let them take you into temptation!”

“Avast! Heave short!” grumbled the husky voice of the sailor. “Sky—foc'sle blown to ribbons.”

“I'll 'avast' you, you deep-water scum! For two seasons you've led me a dog's life. For two seasons you've worked hard to spoil your luck when if you'd given it free rein we both would be richer than old Philadelphius, who got eighty-six million dollars together. No need of me reminding he didn't trust to no drunken old dog like you, Sailor Ben.”

“Belay! Heave-to!” growled the sailor.

They crashed from the growth, the sailor rolling ahead and Weymouth Mass striding behind him, his heavy voice pouring forth a flood of carefully enunciated objurgations. He displayed no surprise on beholding Old Misery but at once announced:

“This drink-loving reptile has tried my patience for the last time, Misery. I'm going to ham-string him.”

“Belay,” groaned the sailor, dropping on the ground and rubbing his tired legs.

Weymouth fanned himself with his hat and bitterly explained: “Deserted me in my hour of need, Misery. Deserted me just as his luck was beginning to work! We'd struck color in an old water course and he was pointing up the ridge and breathing hard—”

“Breeze fell. Luck all right,” broke in the sailor wearily. “Come in to freshen ballast.”

“You're trying to make him believe what you told me,” upbraided Weymouth Mass. “Trying to make him believe your luck was calling you back to Grass Hollow, you—you derelict!”

“Aye, aye, sir. But soft on the bad names, Cap'n.”

“There, Misery! He confesses! You can see—”

“Wait a minute,” gravely interrupted Old Misery, his eyes serious and respectful as he gazed at the sullen sailor. “That name you give Ben wa'n't called for. Weymouth, that feller's wakan witshasha. I've been hankering most keen you two would come; and here you be. Younkers, step out here.”

And Weymouth Mass and Ben were startled by the sudden appearance of Maria and Gilbert.

Old Misery hastily explained:

“Sailor Ben has proved his luck is mighty strong medicine. It's fetched you here when I needed you most. It's going to take you to some rich diggings. Always intended you should have 'em; now the time has come. And, Weymouth, when you're trailing luck don't try to hamper it. It's just like a mahopa Minnetaree. May wander and act mighty queer. But hands off, and watch it.

“This is what you must do: Go with the girl and the younker to a rocky little basin she'll take you to. Dig. Lots of nuggets. Old river bed. May lead back up the ridge to the mother-lode. I'll turn back and hunt for old Miguel. He's wandered off somewhere. When I fetch him to the basin you'll have to quit digging and go on a trip for me. Then you can come back and clean up. And after you git tired of placer-mining you can tackle that ledge where Bill Williams sleeps. It's rotten with gold. All I ask is that Peters gits a third. There's enough for you all.”

“Merciful heavens!” gasped Weymouth Mass. “Mr. Ben, I humbly apologize.”

But Ben was asleep.

Arousing the sailor, Old Misery told him to go with the girl and Gilbert. As the little procession, including Bill Williams, moved on the mountain man detained Weymouth Mass and hurriedly explained the situation, and won his promise to take the girl to Mexico, or close enough to the line to insure her against capture.

“The river gold up in the basin and the ledge in the holler will pay you for your bother,” he concluded. “And one-third for Peters.”

“Why, Misery, old friend! You don't have to pay, me. I'll take the girl to Mexico, or South America, safe and sound. As for the gold, let Ben and me have a fifth. We'll work it and turn over to you—”

“Not if you're my friend,” broke in Old Misery. “I've told you I'm going to take the younker over the ridge. He and me may wander round a bit. Feeling sorter cur'ous to see if the Forks of the Missouri look like they did when I was last up there. But I'll let you give him a little present, so's he can make a feast if he goes back home. If he turns mountain man he won't need any gold. If he does I know where to find it.”

“He'll never gamble again. I'll swear it.”

“I was thinking of women. He's too honest to be running without hobbles. A woman might make a worse fool of him than gambling ever would—good-hearted. Took care of me when he thought I was on a spree. But green, Weymouth, greener 'n you'll ever be. Now what's that streak of scarlet mean by scooting back here?”

The last referred to the sudden appearance of Maria, who was running swiftly through the timber down the slope. She was panting for breath when she came to a halt before the two men. With a gesture she requested Old Misery to step one side. When she could speak she explained:

“The sailor, Beel Williams and Senor Gilbert and the mule are waiting. I forgot to tell you something, Senor Comandante. It is about my wicked old grandfather. There is no need for you to look for him. He has gone to find Manuel Vesequio and punish him for speaking the name of Ana Benites. My grandfather is ver' angry that Vesequio should betray me to the Americanos. When he is finished in Nevada City he will come back to the hollow and make a smoke signal and I will come down the ridge and lead him up to the basin. Then for Mexico.”

“Hell! Forgot to tell me!” roared Old Misery. “You knew this all the time and kept shet!”

“My grandfather told me to say nothing. You told me to obey my grandfather when you brought me back from the bay,” she naively defended herself.

“You killed time a-purpose with them tree-nuggets to give him a chance to sneak off. And you know he's helpless and can't find his way anywhere.”

“It was his command, Senor Comandante. You have told me to obey him. It is in his blood to pay the man who betrayed me. I could not stop him if I wished. His knife burns in his sash till he wipes out that treachery. Hate will be his eyes. Hate will lead him safe to Nevada City. Love for Senor Comandante will lead him back to Grass Hollow,” she gravely argued. “I tell you this so you will not waste time hunting in the woods. By now he is far down the ridge.”

“And you held your tongue till you believed he had too much of a start to be overtaken. Even if he makes Nevada City he will stand no chance with Ching-a-ling. A blind man fighting a seeing man! Even if he stood a chance he will get there too late. Afore now one of that damned Joaquin's men has settled the breed's hash. Go back and lead them to the basin. Stay there till I come.”

He strode rapidly down the little hollow until he camp to the camp. Then he halted before the cage containing the wolf-pups and mused:

“Some root 'n' grass Injun may take your hides for leggings, but I'll give you your chance. If you've l'arned any medicine from me mebbe you'll keep clear.”

And he opened the cage and let the frisky animals go.

He watched them nose about the camp, as if uncertain as to what they should do with their freedom. Then instinct whispered to them, and with furtive, padding step they vanished in the gloomy timber. Proceeding to the cage of panther-kittens, he turned them loose. Without any hesitancy they fled to the dark growth. He walked after them a bit and tried to call them to him; but they were wild folks now and belonged to the spacious outdoors.

“Better'n selling 'em,” he muttered.

Next he visited the chained bear and examined the teeth.

“Your mouth's dangerous, younker,” he told the cub; and he unfastened the collar.

The bear made straight for the girl-bear and engaged in good-natured rough-and-tumble play. Tiring of their fun, or because the released captive associated the hollow with restricted freedom, the male trotted into the pines, the female following him.

Old Misery stared after them thoughtfully, then commented:

“Hell of a way to say good-by. Reg'lar Injuns.”

Sweeping his gaze over the deserted camp, he started on the trail of old Miguel, whose age and failing sight could never slack the inborn lust for vengeance. And as he swung down the slope he told himself:

“Just like a Comanche. Nothing but blood will wipe it out. Good camp. Easy life. All knocked to hell along of a girl's whim. Mebbe that's the way my medi cine is working to git me back over the ridge. Knew something was going to bu'st when I picked up that Tunkan rock at Illinoistown.”

And he hummed the Teton Sioux medicine song, “The Sacred Stones Come to See You,” and felt a surge of impatience to be east of the Sierra and working his way through the Humboldt Mountains to rediscover old scenes visited in his youth when he was one of General Ashley's men.

It was evening when the mountain man entered Nevada City and began his search for old Miguel. He did not care to be recognized and kept much to the shadows as he worked along toward the Chinese store, kept by Ching-a-ling.

He did not anticipate any trouble if recognized by those seeking Gilbert, and who knew that young man went up the ridge in his company. But such a meeting would necessitate leaving a false trail and a return to the little basin by a roundabout course. He was confident, however, he could enter and leave town without being recognized, and this assurance he attributed to his new rock-medicine. Only one thing worried him, the true meaning of his dream wherein he saw bloody foot-prints leaving the Grass Hollow camp.

He avoided the street crowds as much as possible, and yet soon realized there was an unusual number of men tramping along Broad and Main, often walking four abreast. At the intersections of streets large groups milled around some loud-voiced speaker.

The citizens were not indulging in a celebration but appeared much in earnest in their tramping back and forth.

No one had eyes for the gray ghost of a figure gliding from doorway to doorway, nor did Old Misery care to ask any questions. He heard angry exclamations, consisting of threats to “hang them yet,” and the like, but he did not learn the cause of the excitement until he was forced to halt by a compact mass of men blocking the street corner where he had planned to turn off and strike for the breed's store.

The aimless marching back and forth now seemed to have arrived at a common purpose, and small streams of citizens were feeding into the street to take part in a mass meeting. The gathering mob was ominously quiet, waiting for a leader.

Some one kicked a barrel into the cleared space, and a citizen leaped upon it and shouted:

“I tell you Joaquin Murieta wasn't with 'em! 'Dutch” Joe knows him by sight. He seen the raiders after they killed the two herders and drove off the hosses. They passed close by where he was hiding—”

The head of the barrel collapsed as the orator stressed his remarks with heavy stamps. Ordinarily his dropping through the barrel would have caused shouts of merriment and much derision, but the temper of the gathering was evidenced by the silence that greeted the mishap. The man crawled from the barrel and backed into the crowd.

“We're wasting too much time doing nothing,” yelled another citizen, who did not step from the ranks. “Let's do our own regulating. There's enough men in Nevada City to overtake the rascals.”

From the outskirts of the gathering some one shouted:

“Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!”

The cry was caught up and repeated as the gambler was recognized. He worked his way through the mass and stepped into the little opening. He waited for the shouting to subside, and as he waited he indulged in his old habit of shuffling coins as if they were so many cards.

“Two men have been murdered and twenty horses have been stolen,” he quietly began. “It's quite useless to chase the raiders. They have made a score of miles by this time and before you can overtake them they will scatter and make for a rendezvous. They will leave one or two men to drive the horses over the ridge into the Carson Valley.

“We want the men who killed the herders. We want the men back of them who are the brains of the outfit. I suggest that a small, well-armed and determined band of men be selected to ride south for the San Joaquin Valley, striking straight for Corral Hollow Canon on the western edge, where it's known Murieta has one of his central camps. If the bandits are not there let the posse ride on to Cantua Creek below the Fresno, where Murieta has had a big camp. A second posse should ride direct to Saw Mill Flat near the Stanislaus.

“This is work for Nevada City men. I will ride with the first posse, and Nevada City will be pleased to have any gentlemen from Marysville, Sacramento or the bay go along with us. Let half a dozen ranchers or men who knew the Sierra country between here and Carson Valley, ride to inspect the mountain passes. The stolen horses can be easily traced if prompt action is taken. They will not be strongly guarded until they reach the Carson, where there must be a strong camp.

“If any men from down the river or the bay are here I'll be glad to hear from them. We should ride at once.”

A well-dressed man advanced through the group and briefly explained:

“I was sent up here by our committee at the bay. I am a merchant and not a horseman. Several who came with me are profiting by information I have picked up and even now are on their way to arrest one of Joaquin's band, a young man, an Englishman, who aided the bandit to escape from Frisco a short time ago.

“My friends also expect to capture a woman member of the band, and from her we expect to learn enough to put an end to Murieta's deviltry. Were I a horseman I should be glad to ride south with either posse.”

“Hurrah for the committee! We'll all work together!” cried the man who had fallen through the barrel.

Mr. Peters inquired of the merchant:

“You believe your information is correct? That you're not arousing false hopes?”

“Positive. Men sent out ahead of me learned certain things, but could get nowhere. On the way up I met one of your citizens, a James Pipps; he was in bonanza and going home. Without realizing the importance of his talk—he had been drinking—he told things that allowed me to put all our information together. I can assure you that within two days my friends will ride into Nevada City with two important prisoners.”

Old Misery saw Mr. Peters back into the crowd and disappear. Many questions were hurled at the San Francisco merchant. Men began talking in groups.

From the edge of the crowd Mr. Peters shouted:

“All men owning good horses and straight-shooting guns meet me at Kelly's lodging-house an hour before sun-up to-morrow.”

Old Misery turned to a man standing close by and asked:

“What's this all about? Whose hosses is missing? I just come along. First I've heard of it.”

“From Adams' ranch. Run off in broad daylight. Who'n hell be you?” The last was sharp with suspicion; and the stranger tugged the end of his long mustache and leaned forward to stare into the mountain man's face.

“I'm the feller who never stole any hosses,” meekly replied Old Misery, backing away.

The man instantly shouted:

“This way! One of the thieves 'n' murderers right here! I've got him!”

Those nearest blocked Old Misery's retreat. The stranger leaped forward and clutched the fringed cape of the hunting-shirt, but quickly became immobile as he felt the muzzle of a navy Colt pressed against his stomach. The two were hedged in by citizens.

Without removing his gaze from the fellow's startled visage the mountain man called out:

“Some of you know me. Peters is my friend. Fetch him, and he'll tell you all that I ain't stealing any hosses this season; just selling bars.”

“I know him. He's Old Misery,” spoke up a storekeeper. “He's the grizzly-bear man. He's all right.”

“Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!” yelled a dozen voices.

The gambler must have lingered in the crowd after calling for a rendezvous of horsemen, for he quickly came plowing his way forward. And he must have heard the storekeeper's endorsement, for without asking any questions he clapped a hand on the mountain man's shoulder and loudly declared:

“This man is my friend. He's all right. All white and a yard wide.”

“Thanky kindly, Peters,” said Old Misery. “But who's this cuss who's so mighty pert to name me a hoss-thief? Mebbe you'd best look him up a bit and see where he trails in here from.”

“You cut the ace! Who knows this man?” demanded the gambler.

Old Misery belted his gun and grinned sardonically at his perturbed accuser. Face after face was thrust forward, and man after man denied having ever seen the fellow.

“Search him!” directed Mr. Peters.

The man was dragged to a lighted window and his pockets emptied. There was nothing found of an incriminating nature except two gold rings, plain bands like wedding rings. These were tried on his fingers and were found to be much too small.

Before he could be questioned he hoarsely declared:

“I bought 'em for my woman. Man said he was hard up and would sell 'em cheap. That's Gawd's truth.”

“Your neck depends on your being able to prove it,” grimly the gambler informed him. “Put him in a strong room. We'll find out later where he was when the ranch was raided, and where his woman lives.”

“I don't know anything about the ranch except what I've heard here to-night,” cried the stranger. “Then this old feller that looks like a hoss-thief—”

With a wild whoop Old Misery leaped upon him and would have beaten him to the ground had not the onlookers pulled him back.

“I'll have his ha'r!” cried the mountain man. “Peters, I'll have that skunk's mangy fur, I'm telling you!”

“Be quiet and be good,” commanded the gambler, drawing him away. “You take a walk and cool your blood. No street brawling here till after the fellow's let loose. Then comb him if you want to.”

And as if to get his friend away before he could renew his assault on the stranger—now being hustled to a place of safekeeping—the gambler led Old Misery out of hearing and announced:

“Hell's to pay!”

“I heard the man from the bay talk,” said Old Misery. “But his friends won't find even a tame wolf-pup at my camp. Everything cleaned out.”

“Whew! That's good hearing. I was sweating blood when that Frisco man was talking. Trying to find some one in the crowd I could trust to send up the ridge with a warning to you when you had that rumpus. It's true; they're hot foot after young Ounce-Diggings and that girl. By this time the Frisco storekeeper has learned who you are, and he'll probably blab to some of the men that his friends are riding for your camp and that you're a man to be trailed. They'll comb that camp and surrounding country for the two youngsters.”

“Like hell!” jeered Old Misery. “Might as well search the Rockies for a bullet some one lost there two years ago. As for trailing me, they want to make a new medicine first. Now, listen: I come here to find old Miguel.”

And he briefly explained Ching-a-ling's treachery and the Mexican's errand to the town.

“Haven't seen him. Scarcely any one here knows him. But if he comes to town he'll be locked up. Every greaser is under suspicion on account of the double murder at Adams' rancho. I didn't know Ching-a-ling had betrayed the girl. Supposed he had blabbed on the youngster. And I didn't know that till to-night as I've been down to Marysville for a few days.”

“Miguel will try to git at Ching-a-ling.”

“No use. He's staying in his store mighty close, scared blue, and two men are guarding him. He was promised protection if he would tell what he knew. Your Mexican can't get at him. You must steal away. They'll try to trail you.”

“Reckon I'm on a fool hunt,” muttered Old Misery. “Blind old cuss would have hard work getting down here, let alone finding the breed's place. He's like a Comanche; only blood will rub it out. I'll be mizzling afore more folks can call me a thief. Walk along a bit till I can scoot.”

The excitement attending the arrest and imprisonment of the stranger afforded them cover for a retreat. They turned a corner, and Mr. Peters rubbed his eyes and discovered he was walking alone.

With a foolish grin he turned back and was soon met by the San Francisco merchant, who hurriedly asked:

“Where's your aged friend? It's very important I should speak to him.”

“Gone. Started back home. Anything I can tell you?”

“He should know he has been harboring two persons, man and woman, who are wanted for being members of Murieta's band.”

“Then why in the hell didn't you tell us that when you and your friends first arrived here?”

“Well, it would have been better if we'd told you,” admitted the merchant. “But Murieta has so many spies in the camps and towns that we feared word would be sent that our men were on the trail.”

In the meanwhile Old Misery was groping his way along the rear of several stores, working around and between empty barrels and boxes and mounds of bottles and discarded clothing, his line of advance taking him toward the back end of the Chinese store.

It was dark, and he dared not risk discovery by attempting haste. At last he halted at the back of the store. He ran his hands over the boards but found no door. Creeping to the corner, he peered around and toward the street. Near him was a man seated on a box. As he watched the man called out:

“Slow work, Tim. Wish they'd relieve us, or bring us a drink.”

A voice in front of the store replied:

“The yellow rat doesn't deserve to be protected. Giving away a woman's mighty poor business.”

Old Misery decided he had made every effort and should be retiring. But to return up the ridge and report to the girl that he had found no signs of old Miguel was difficult for him to do. He sat down and weighed the situation carefully. If the old man had entered the town he would have been locked up, and Mr. Peters would have known that fact. Either he had lost his way entirely, or was entering under cover of night. If the latter, he would make for the store.

The side door was unbolted, and Old Misery returned to the corner. He heard the breed in English invite:

“Will not my brave guards have a drink from the bottle? It is the best brandy in California. Guards should be alert, but one drink can not harm.”

“Go to hell!” growled the guard who had complained of being “dry.”

The door softly closed, then opened, and the breed was anxiously asking:

“Why are they shouting? I hear men shouting.”

Old Misery was also hearing it, a confusion of many voices from the center of the town. The man in front of the store called out:

“Something's bu'sted loose, Charley. We're missing some fun.”

“Maybe it's a fire, Tim.”

And the guard at the side door rose and walked toward Misery. The mountain man barely had time to retire behind a barrel before “Charley” was at the corner, staring about for a red glare.

Several pistol shots rang out, followed by wild outcries. Charley turned and ran rapidly to the front of the store. Old Misery was impatient to witness the excitement, but prudence warned him to avoid recognition as he must be out of the town traveling back to the hidden basin before daylight.

The yelling of many voices continued, and there came a second ragged volley of pistol shots. The clamor was approaching the store, and thudding through it sounded the hoofs of a galloping horse. From the corner of the building the mountain man saw the two guards run into the road and call on a horseman to halt. Two quick reports was their answer, and the rider was spurring his steed up the eastern slope.

A mob of infuriated citizens swept up the street. The foremost found Tim cursing violently and nursing a broken arm, while his companion was trying to explain that only surprise stopped him from returning the horseman's fire.

That Ching-a-ling was much alarmed by the shouting and shooting was suggested to Old Misery as he heard a sharp outcry from inside the store. The van of the mob sped on, the front line emptying their revolvers into the darkness ahead. From the broken talk of those who followed to witness the stirring chase Old Misery at his corner overheard enough to understand the situation. His accuser had made a bold dash for liberty and had escaped on another man's horse.

“Clever cuss' Out-Injuned 'em,” he murmured.

That Ching-a-ling's nerves were badly frayed was further evidenced by a heavy crash inside the store. Then the mountain man realized that the guards had left their posts without being relieved.

“I promised him what I'd do if he bothered her,” muttered Old Misery. “He give the girl away. She was living straight. He give her away, and she must go back to Murieta's crowd. And I told him what I'd do if he troubled her again. I'll give him a square show, and that's more'n he gave her, or ever gave any man, woman or child. But he didn't oughter be turned loose to hurt other folks.”

And he crept along the building to the side door.

The street in front of the store was thick with excited men and women. Old Misery drew his knife and leaned against the door and watched to see that none was looking his way. He heard a slight noise beyond the thin boards. It sounded as if Ching-a-ling was crouching there and trying to subdue his heavy breathing. Thinking the man was about to come out, the mountain man drew aside.

A minute passed and nothing happened.

He slowly counted sixty, then reached up and tried the catch and felt the door give. He pushed it gently inward, but it would open only part way. There was no pressure to close it. He reached his arm around the door, and his fingers closed on something. Drawing it forth, his sense of touch identified it as a big Mexican hat.

Then the truth flashed home. With no further hesitation he rose and slipped through the narrow aperture and with the toe of his moccasin located the owner of the hat. The figure was inert, and he knew the man was dead. There remained the victor; and now the mountain man drew his knife again and knew he must keep his promise to Ching-a-ling, or die.

Moving noiselessly he passed into the living-room back of the store. Odors of musk and Oriental scents offend ed his nostrils. With his knife advanced and revolving in a narrow circle, with his free hand holding his hat out one side to ward off an attack from that direction, he sidled along the wall, moving to the left. His foot touched some object.

He waited several minutes and could hear no sound except his own soft, slow breathing. He did not believe any human being could remain cooped up with him in such close quarters without betraying his presence. His nostrils twitched, again offended. Suddenly he stooped and with his free hand felt of the object his foot had hit. It was a parcel wrapped in a cloth, and by the fringe he decided the covering was a shawl. Throwing back the corners of the shawl, he investigated with light fingers, and with the first contact he was standing erect and exclaiming under his breath:

“The bloody-minded devil! Just like a Comanche! Only blood could rub it out. They fit to the death in the darkness, neither having any 'vantage! But to cut off his head and planning to take it away in a shawl!”

Without any further attempt at stealth he located the decapitated remains of Ching-a-ling. Old Miguel had completed his business despite the guards. Returning to the side entrance, the mountain man swiftly brushed his fingers over the wrinkled face of the Mexican. The knife was still clutched in the lifeless hand. Misery's searching fingers found three fearful stab-wounds; one in the side and two in the chest. And yet the former outlaw had willed to live until he had slain the breed and had hacked off his head!

By the time he had regained the street and was hurrying away from the town the mountain man had reconstructed the horrible tragedy. The old Mexican had cunningly timed his arrival. In some way he had located the store and had learned that two guards were posted there. With the patience of an Indian he had waited. He had seized the first opportunity—when the guards were in front of the store to learn the cause of the shooting—and had entered by the side door.

He had found the breed in the dark room and had received three thrusts before giving the mortal stroke. Ching-a-ling had cried out on discovering the identity of his visitor, or else when meeting death. Old Miguel, although rapidly bleeding to death, had carried through his gruesome program. In making for the door he had lurched against something and knocked it over. He had collapsed at the door, and it was his last gasping breath that Old Misery had heard.

“Pretty works!” muttered Old Misery. “And what'll Nevada City think when it finds the two of 'em?”

CHAPTER VI

“LIKE A WOLF I ROAM”

THE sun required yet another hour to climb to the crest of the Sierra as Old Misery limped up the narrow, rocky channel leading to the basin. He carried a large pack and two rifles; and he was glad to rest for a bit when he reached the lower end of the basin. The glow in the eastern sky revealed the camp of the three men and the girl—four mounds of blankets on the grass near the tiny mountain stream.

A larger mound at some distance from the sleeper, stirred and rose to four feet; and Bill Williams came sniffling toward his master. The mountain man advanced, threw down his pack and guns, fondled his pet's head and gave him a chew of tobacco. It was the girl Maria who first sensed his approach. She sat up and threw aside her blankets, then rose and ran to meet him.

“Senor Comandante comes back—without my grandfather,” she whispered.

“He won't come back any more,” he bluntly announced. “Rubbed out, fighting with the breed, Ching-a-ling.”

“Madre de Dios! What words to bring me!” she hissed. “Then the granddaughter goes! She has eyes. She has a knife. She is young—not a poor old blind man.”

“Ching-a-ling is dead. Your grandpap did for him after gitting his own quittance. The camp in Grass Holler is filled with men, looking for you and the younker.”

“He keeled Vesequio? Ah, that is good! Is it not? My grandfather was an old man. He would die ver' soon, keeled by the years. Many times he has said each year is so much more weight on his shoulders. Rest his soul! He struck me many times. But I forgeeve. He was a ver' brave old caballero. He keeled the man who insult me. The men below? Can they find us here?”

“We must be leaving as soon as we eat,” he told her. “By sun-up they'll be spreading out and hunting. They can't find us by follering any trail; they might stumble upon us. Nearly walked my legs off gitting here. Nevada City has started posses after Murieta. This time they'll get him. Just as sure as if he'd dreamed of snakes, or the moon. Mexico is the place for you.”

“Pouf! Never will they catch Don Joaquin Murieta. If they catch me he will come and take me from them.”

“If they catch you they might stretch your slim neck. Murieta couldn't free you. The younker must go over the ridge. They're hunting him as well as you.”

Weymouth Mass stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.

“Back again,” he rumbled, and his deep, booming voice brought Gilbert from his dreams.

Old Misery briefly repeated what he had told the girl and directed that food be prepared and a start made at once. Weymouth Mass did not seem to apprehend any danger and was loath to leave the basin.

“We've begun uncovering the top soil and we've found one small nest of nuggets already. I put them in a bag for Gilbert.”

“But the men in Coloma!” cried Gilbert. “What will they be thinking? I'm branded as a thief by this time! I can't go home. I can't go anywhere under my own name. I'd rather stay and risk capture!”

“Easy and simple as lifting the back-fat out of a buf'ler,” declared Old Misery. “I've fetched a good rifle for you. We'll pick up some hosses after we git over the ridge. And a pack-mule. Once we git 'em we'll own all outdoors. Turn mountain man and live as you was made to live. Walk along the Rockies and see things. Work only for yourself. No one west the Mississippi will care a hoot to know your name or hist'ry. I'll make you into a prime mountain man.”

Gilbert stared with defeated eyes at the mountain man.

Misery eagerly continued:

“I know all the ground. We'll find Tom Tobin and have some fun. I'm getting old and cantank'rous. You can look after me a trifle.”

“Senor Gilbert can not go East. He can not stay in California. Let him go to Mexico where he will be called a great man for helping Don Murieta,” softly urged the girl.

Old Misery glanced with worried eyes from one to the other, and conceded:

“Here is his new rifle and a small bag of nuggets. It is for him to say.”

The Vermonter shook his head dismally.

“I can't leave the United States. If I must lose myself, give up my name, and be thought a thief, at least I'll stay in the country.”

“Spoken like a mountain man!” cried Old Misery. “And all hell can't drive you out the Rockies, or from the plains. And you'll meet lots of folks who don't wear the names first saddled on 'em. Plenty of room to begin a new life. My offer of five dollars a day still holds. You've earned it most reg'lar right up to now. We'll notch a stick and bimeby you'll have 'nough money to square off that debt. You can take it back East and let on you was captured by Injuns and just managed to bu'st loose. Tell 'em you stumbled on the Lost Cabin mine and dug 'nough gold to make up for what the reds took from you afore you could carry it to Coloma.”

“If he could only stay here for a while we'd soon have enough gold to make up for his mistake,” spoke up Weymouth Mass.

“We're staying just long enough to eat and pack the mule. You folks will take the mule. Double-Time 'n' me are off over the ridge and down the Truckee River to the immigrant road. Rest of you follow along the ridge, keeping down to 'bout this level. Keep well up when you reach the head of the San Joaquin; for posses will be combing the valley. Maria, I'd like to have you take Bill Williams along with you. Some greenhorn, or Pike, will shoot him if he goes with me. He's good medicine to have. He's mato-wapiya, or grizzly-bear medicine.”

“He is a ver' gran' caballero,” quickly agreed the girl. “He shall go with me to Mexico. No one will shoot the friend of Ana Benites down there.”

Sailor Ben woke up, staggered to his feet and hoarsely growled:

“Stand by to repel boarders. What's the lookout see?”

“We're off to Mexico. No more digging till we come back,” Weymouth Mass informed him.

This intelligence seemed to please the sailor. Chanting an old sea-song deep in his hairy throat, he endeavored to forward the breakfast by collecting bits of dry fuel. After giving orders that only the driest of the fuel be used Old Misery went to the lower end of the basin and stood watch while the breakfast was being prepared.

He was glad to be leaving the coast, and yet he had been there many pleasant months. He stared long and intently down toward the broad valley of the Sacramento and recalled the days when New Helvetia, Sutter's post, controlled what was now the north half of the state. He had seen Yerba Buena magically change from a sleepy hamlet to a mighty city. There was pathos in the thought of leaving it all, and yet he was glad to go.

He had seen Sacramento spring up along the marsh of the river and become a metropolis in itself, and even worse for rats than San Francisco. He had seen the first steamboat, Captain Leideshorff, enter the bay from Sitka. He traveled the American River when it was called Rio de los Americanos. He could have bought vara^[1] lots in 'forty-seven for fifty dollars; and smaller ones in 'fifty-three, much farther out in the bay, brought sixteen thousand dollars.

He remembered the deserted appearance of the city in May, 'forty-eight, when all the active-bodied had hurried to the valley of the Sacramento. There was the Apollo, anchored in the cove some distance from the beach; and he had seen the city suddenly expand and surround it. He had waded waist deep, when the tide was in, between California Street and Rincon Point; and had returned after a short absence to find the hills shoveled into the cove and a business center sprung up where he had fought the tide.

So rapidly had the changes come that he had the sense of living many years on the coast. Now the era was finished, and he was glad to go. If melancholy crept in it was in the nature of regret that the country was being so thickly settled.

“I'd be crowded out in another season even if I didn't have to go now,” he mused. “One good thing 'bout the Rockies. Never git crowded.”

Then his reverie was broken by a thread of smoke far below. At first he believed it was a camp-fire. Then another thread, close to the first, showed above the forest crown; and a third. The three cabins in Grass Hollow were being destroyed.

“They feel that bitter ag'in' me they'll burn innercent log huts,” he muttered.

The three smokes told him the posses would be leaving the hollow, and he hastened back to the fire just as Maria was about to call to him.

The breakfast was hurriedly eaten as the feeling of being hunted was now strong in the mind of each, the mountain man excepted. The mule was packed, and as the little procession moved higher up the ridge before swinging south Old Misery walked beside Weymouth Mass and directed him to keep well east of Moquelumne Hill, Columbia and Sonora, so as to retire over the ridge into the Mono Lake country if threatened by a posse.

“I know the country. They can't catch us,” assured Weymouth Mass.

“If Senor Comandante will tell Senor Weymouth to leave me and Beel Williams in the San Joaquin Valley, I can find my way to Corral Hollow Canon and look out for myself,” spoke up the girl.

“And be caught offhand,” replied the mountain man. “That's one of the places the posses is aiming for. Weymouth, you deliver her in Mexico. Then if she comes back I'll be mighty sorry for her, but I'll have done my part. Can't you understand, Maria, that that devil of a friend of yours has played his game out and ain't got any more chips left than young Double-Time here had when he carried a fight to your monte-table? Don't your medicine tell you he'll lose his head just as sure as Ching-a-ling lost his? He'll never live to see the next rains. Californy is tired of his ways.”

She laughed incredulously. Joaquin Murieta was the champion of her people, taking bloody reprisals for the countless wrongs inflicted by gold-hunters on Mexican inhabitants of what had been so recently a part of Mexico. He could not be killed. Yet Captain Love, veteran of the Mexican War, already had been authorized by the Legislature to raise a company of twenty-five rangers and eliminate the scourge. Even as she was deriding Old Misery's prophecy the hooded shape was standing close to the mountain bandit and was about to stretch forth a bony arm and touch his shoulder and motion for him to come away from all earthly affairs.

The travel through the eastern opening of the basin and up the ridge was rough, as there was no semblance of even an aboriginal path, and the fugitives' progress was slow. At midday they halted in a little valley, thick with firs and pines, and ate cooked meat.

“We'll split the trail here,” gruffly announced Old Misery. “If you're ever in the Rockies, Weymouth, look me up. Ben will go back to sea after the women folks in the towns have got all his gold. Don't forgit the ledge where Bill Williams slept. I've cracked out two hundred dollars a day with a hammer from that rotten rock. Could 'a' taken out a thousand if I'd wanted to. Maria, you be a good girl. Don't chase 'round with robbers.”

“Senor Comandante, I told Senor Gilbert's name in Grass Valley.”

“I know it. You knew I knowed it. But keep out of monte places. Don't fight against the law. My new medicine tells me you can be happy if you want to be.”

The girl seized his hand and embarrassed him by losing self-control and weeping.

“Come, come,” he mumbled. “Never'll do, you young streak of scarlet. When I'm down Mexico-way I'll drop in and say howdy.”

She released his hand and remained silent. Old Misery said good-by to Sailor Ben and then patted Bill Williams' head, but said nothing. Turning back, he fished a long plug of tobacco from his shirt and gave it to Weymouth, saying:

“Three good-sized chaws a day. When Maria gits home she'll remember Bill's a mountain man and hankers for it. Come along, younker. We're killing too much time.”

Gilbert shook hands with the two men and then gave his hand to the girl.

“Good-by, Senor Gilbert. Luck is in your face. Is it not? You will be ver' happy some day. I am ver' sorry I told your name. But if I was angry again I might tell it. The senorita back in the East would understan'.”

“Good-by, Maria. I'll always remember you kindly. You're to blame for nothing. I was just a fool; what Misery calls 'heyoka.'”

“Come, come,” hoarsely prompted the mountain man. “I've given the pipe and we've sung the travel-song. We're Big Shields and pitch our lodges forth in the Kiowy camping-circle. We have the care of gadombitsonhi and will count many coups. Mustn't lose no more time, younker.”

And with this concluding farewell he struck up the ridge and never once glanced back. Not until within a few miles of the Truckee River road did he halt and explain their whereabouts to his gloomy companion.

“You won't know it's a road when you see it,” he ran on. “So we won't take it yet a while. They may have men watching it for the hoss-thieves, and I'd hate to have you scooped up by mistake. We'll camp here and take a look at things in the morning. Once down t'other side I'll have to buy or steal some hosses from fellers that stole 'em over this side the ridge. Hope they won't forgit Bill's terbacker. I'd ruther turned him into the woods, but he'd make for the first man he saw, being that lonesome like, and the man would shoot him, being that blind he couldn't tell a reg'lar mountain man of a b'ar from a common grizzly. Well, well. Living seems to be made up of quitting doing things and beginning new things.

“You just stick along with me, younker. If you hanker for gold I know places where you can find it easy. Lots of it. There's the Snake River country. There's the Bitter Root country. Lawd! I've scuffed my feet over dozens of rich placer-mines, but I never was fool 'nough to take more'n what I needed for whisky, powder 'n' lead and terbacker.”

Gilbert had no heart for talk. Mountains of gold could not compensate him for being a nameless wanderer. He had jumped off the earth. He could only say:

“You've been very kind to me. I've been a nuisance to you. Everything I ever planned to do is ended. You're the only one I care to travel with. I'll try to learn mountain ways so as not to be too much of a bother.”

On the crest of the Sierra Gilbert had been permitted to stand at sunrise and gaze on two worlds. For a little time he forgot his pygmy affairs in wondering at the immensity of the panorama. From the north paraded the bewildering procession of peaks. In the west beyond the timbered foot-hills were the shadowy plains of the Sacramento. Ahead of them, already gilded by the promise of a new day, stretched forest and lakes and barren wastes. Old Misery eagerly pointed toward the Humboldt Mountains and insisted that his companion could see a faint blue line, but Gilbert only saw the dazzling light of the rising sun.

They took their time in following down the eastern slopes. They camped in wood-enclosed valleys. The mountain man shot deer, and they spent a day smoking and drying the meat; this to save their staple supplies. Gilbert became accustomed to the shadowy forms of wolves furtively accompanying them and learned to give them no heed. One day Old Misery shot a cougar from a tree. Gilbert, supposing he had fired at a bird, was much startled when the tawny body crashed to the ground.

Old Misery's spirits were those of a boy as they reached the lower valleys. Gilbert, now convinced he could not rearrange his fate, felt a leaden weight in his heart, but was spared the hysteria of uncertainty. California and committees were infinitely removed. Fear could no longer dog him. He endeavored to be a good traveling companion.

The second day after leaving the Truckee the mountain man announced:

“High time to hunt a Mormon station and buy a mule and some supplies. Two horses, if we can git 'em. Two seasons ago there was a log trading-station five miles from here. May not be kept up, or the trader may be gone as it's too early for the immigrant trade to come in. You're gitting to be a good shot—at game. Bimeby you can try your hand on a moving target—Injuns.

“If you're chased by Injuns never try to hide up in bushes or woods. They'll sneak in and have your ha'r afore you know it. Break for open country and wait for 'em to come up. Sp'ils the best man's nerve to run away. Halt, throw your hoss and tie him, or shoot him. Lacking a hoss, throw up a little ridge of dirt with your knife. Even five or six inches makes you feel better.

“Never git excited when you see 'em come piling down. Never hurry. Make your first shot count. They'll try to scare hell out of you by howling and yowling. Just howl back at 'em. You'll find a big band of 'em will ride round you for hours, a-whooping, but not caring to rush in so long as your gun's loaded. They don't like to tackle mountain men. They've l'arned they have to pay too high a price, and they know they won't git much truck.

“What they hanker for most is fat wagon-trains, filled with greenhorns and storegoods. Always remember the Injun thinks different than white men. Let a dozen white men go into a bloody fight and they will all know some of their number will be rubbed out, but each man thinks he's the one that's coming through alive. Injun thinks just t'other way. Each one thinks his name's on every bullet. Aim your rifle at a line of fifty Injuns and every buck will go over the side of his pony, thinking he's your meat if he don't duck. Still, there's lots of Injuns I'd tie to quicker'n I would to most white men.”

“I'm afraid they'd find me easy game,” sighed Gilbert.

“Not after you've had one or two smart fusses with 'em. Now the Utes ain't any good on the plains, but in their mountains they're all devils. Mebbe we'll have a fracas with 'em going east and you can have a chance to git your hand in. But it would be better to break you in on open ground. Still, we can't have everything as we want it.”

Gilbert said nothing. He was filled with gruesome forebodings. Old Misery took out the buckskin bag and stared thoughtfully at the manganese discolorations. The resemblance to the pine-clad ridge north of Grass Hollow was very strong. For some minutes he stared and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“What do you see?” asked Gilbert, trying to simulate interest. To him one piece of rock was like any other piece of rock.

“Tunkan, the Stone God, is trying to tell me something. Reckon I've got it. Yep. That must be it, or there wouldn't be any need for the medicine to speak. It says we prob'ly will be in for a fuss but will come out of it all right. That's good 'nough for me any time. Wouldn't Tom Tobin like to be here! Damn little runt! Said I bit him!”

Their course next led through broken country that was less heavily timbered than the California slopes. There was the suggestion of sterility farther east. Gilbert could not discover any trace of path or trail, but Old Misery proceeded with the confidence of one walking a New England highway. He came to a halt in a shallow valley that was hemmed about with ragged evergreens. Near by was a low building of logs which Gilbert learned was the trading-house.

“Empty. No one to home,” mused the mountain man.

“We'll camp here to-night and start hunting for a Mormon station to-morrer.”

Scattered around the log house was abundant testimony of preceding seasons' activities in the shape of cart bodies, wheels, axle-trees, broken harness, picks and shovels. This débris extended in a melancholy windrow to the foot of the first slope. Gilbert could only liken it to a sea-coast strewn with wreckage after a northeast gale, the wagon-trains being the ships and this first slope the reef, or rocky shore, on which they had foundered. But what surprised him were several undamaged wagons.

As if guessing his thoughts Old Misery explained:

“We'd see the same thing if we'd crossed from the head of the Tuolumne to the head of the Walker. Son or a traders have a station there. Immigrants find their wagons are too heavy when they come this far, or their stock is played out. They shift to lighter wagons, or use pack-animals. They strike into the plains with a big outfit and begin to leave things behind afore they make Great Salt Lake.

“From Salt Lake on they keep throwing stuff away. I've seen stations chuck full of grub and goods that's been picked up where the greenhorns had to toss 'em aside. Sometimes they have to dump out small hills of flour and then pay a mighty big price for it when they hit these foot-hills. What they have to sell ain't worth nothing, but when they want to buy from a station it's worth its weight in dust.

“A train will pull in here with only half the stock needed to fetch it over the ridge; or with their hosses 'n' cattle played out. Trader buys at his own price, sells at his own price. And so it goes; white folks robbing white folks in trade. A Injun won't do that to t'other Injun. If he's at war he'll kill and sculp; but he won't charge him dollar a pound for poor flour just 'cause t'other Injun's got the dollar and is starving.

“If there's any stores left in that place I'll take what we want and leave 'nough nuggets to pay. Then we'll hunt for a Mormon station, foller the Carson to the Sink and hit the Humboldt road and pass north of Great Salt Lake.

“We can save couple hundred miles—if we was in a hurry to git to anywhere in 'ticular—by taking the Hastings Cut-Off. Somehow I always think of the Donner party when I travel that road. They come out that way and got lost, or held up, or something, and reached the Sierra too late. Snow held 'em back. Starved. The camp where I shot the panther (Reno) was where they waited four days for two of their men to fetch grub from over the ridge, from Sutter's rancho. Wagons scattered over several miles round Truckee Lake and trapped in five feet of snow. Some folks call it Donner Lake since then. I went with the third relief party; hell of a time gitting to what was left alive of 'em.

“John Stark, a giant of a man, was with us. He carried two of the starved immigrants on his back at a time. His father was in Kentucky when old Boone was raising Cain with the Injuns. Tamsen Donner was one of the pluckiest women I ever see. She sent her children out, but wouldn't leave her dying husband.

“After he cashed in she tried it afoot and made seven miles afore pegging out. And only forty miles was 'tween that outfit and warmth and grub' Marysville was named after Mary Murphy, one of 'em that fetched through over the ridge. She married Charles Covil laud. First called New Mecklenburg, trading-post of two 'dobe houses. Then called Yubaville; then the name it now has.”

This recital did not tend to elevate Gilbert's spirits. He was filling in terrible details as his companion talked. He was glad he had not known he was camping where the Donners had camped. He wondered what tragedies the shallow valley had to relate.

It was very quiet. He would have welcomed the howl of a wolf as in silence they advanced to the trading-house. The place was deserted, and there was a lock on the door. The last did not impress Gilbert as being unusual. Men locked their stores in the East.

Old Misery walked around the building and even strolled to the edge of the growth behind it. He found where a number of horses had grazed.

“Hosses been here not long ago,” he mused.

Gilbert attached no significance to this statement. The mountain man fumbled his beard and swept his gaze slowly over the surrounding circle of evergreens and then back to the empty house, and surprised his friend by deciding:

“We'll strike out for the Carson.”

“But not to-night,” said Gilbert; “it's too near sunset. We can camp here. Perhaps the storekeeper will return. We must get some powder even if we can't get a mule.”

Old Misery produced the buckskin bag and peered inside at the medicine-rock and studied it thoughtfully.

“I'm feeling wakan witshasha,” he muttered. “I'd never budge a inch if I was alone. Trouble is, younker, I can't figger if my medicine covers both of us, or just me. That's the hell of it. If you was Tobin, and even if you wasn't covered, I'd say stick and have some fun.”

This was unintelligible to Gilbert. He knew only his companion was given to superstitious vagaries. He knew that his legs were tired and that here was the companionship at least of a white man's house; and the sun would soon be slipping down the western slopes of the Sierra.

“No sense in walking in the dark,” he urged. “I'll build a fire in front of the cabin. Maybe you can bag some small game. If you can't we have plenty of provisions.”

“A fuss with me coming through it all right,” mumbled the mountain man, scowling at the log house. “Must mean both of us. Wouldn't be 'all right' for me if it didn't. Still a red medicine can be slippery's hell; like a Dakota peace-pipe. It'll do just as it says, but sometimes you'll be fooled in reading it. Take a pipe that's rigged out like a peace-pipe and you can swear the Injuns will stick by it if it's all reg'lar. And they will.

“But if a figger of a snake is scratched along the stem and under the feathers it ain't a peace-pipe and don't 'mount to a damn. Now I'd give a heap to know if any snake is hid under what this Tunkan rock seems to be promising. Well, we'll go back to the house and peek through the winders. White folks have been here this season. It's too early to fetch trade-goods here. And if they're inside and any one wants to steal 'em a lock won't stop the thief. Wagon-trains won't be pulling in for a long time.”

Now that they were at the front of the house Gilbert experienced a revulsion of feeling and wished they were on their way to the Carson. Without any discernible reason he felt uneasy. There had been nothing definite in his companion's words to occasion alarm, and yet he felt as if something evil was about to happen. He set it down to the lengthening shadows, the quiet of the fir-fringed hollow and the fact the log house was deserted. One small window in the end of the building and one beside the door were fitted with glass. The others were covered by stout shutters. He remarked on it, and Old Misery said the glass had been obtained from some wagon-train that had packed the useless stuff across the plains from the Missouri.

These two windows permitted the dying light partly to reveal the interior of the one long room. The mountain man pressed his face close to the glass and after gazing inside was puzzled to understand why the door should be locked. There was neither shelving nor merchandise. The back wall of the room was filled with bunks. Directly opposite his window were heaped saddles and bales of blankets. Several rifles and revolvers hung on the wall. In one corner were a dozen jugs and several bags.

“I believe the storekeeper is coming,” spoke up Gilbert.

Old Misery faced about and picked up his rifle. A horseman was galloping from the east side of the valley. As he came on he held up an open hand.

“Howdy,” saluted the mountain man. “You run this outfit?”

The man was grinning broadly, his big teeth clinched together; and without opening his mouth he replied:

“My name's Jason. I'm the trader here. Where you from? What do you want?”

Gilbert was fascinated in watching the writhing lips as the words came through the fence of teeth.

“We're from over the ridge. We want to trade for grub, pack-mule and two hosses. We's got the dust to pay with. We're aiming to make the Humboldt road.”

“Can't furnish a mule or hosses. But there's plenty of whisky, beans, flour and smoked meat inside. You folks wait till I picket my hoss and I'll open up and rustle supper.”

He rode to the corner of the house; then reined in and asked:

“Have you got dust or coins?”

The question seemed to be irrelevant but Old Misery told him:

“I said dust. I meant nuggets. Don't worry 'bout your pay. If we'd wanted to steal we could have bu'sted in.”

“I'd grub-stake you if you was bu'sted,” Jason warmly assured him. “Have to make several trades before I can git my profit in hard money or dust. Swap grub for that stuff I have to tote over the ridge and sell before I can make a profit. Sometimes I lose by it. It's mighty heartening to know it's a cash dicker. If you'd come here without a dollar you'd be welcome; but when you come with dust or nuggets it makes me feel mighty good. With no trains coming in for—”

“I've got the dust, or nuggets. What'n hell you yawping 'bout so long?” querulously interrupted Old Misery.

“Stick up your hands!” commanded a voice behind them. Gilbert and Misery turned and beheld a man on foot. He was aiming two heavy revolvers at them.

“And keep them up, you man who packs dust over to this side of the ridge,” added Jason, riding back with a gun in each hand.

“Out-Injuned by skunks!” gritted Old Misery.

Half a dozen horsemen now galloped from the growth and bore down on the cabin.

“That medicine told the truth so far.”

“What does this mean?” whispered Gilbert. “Posse after me?”

“No. Mebbe worse'n that. But keep shet. Try to act the way you ain't feeling. Leave me to do the powwowing.”

The horsemen came to a plunging halt and, with the exception of a little man perched on a big rawbone roan, leaped to the ground, crowded around the two prisoners and quickly stripped them of their weapons.

“Walked right into your trap, Jason, and never 'spected it!” cried one ruffian admiringly.

“They say they got some Californy dust with 'em,” Jason informed the mounted man.

“Perhaps they bring news that's of more value than the gold,” replied the horseman in a shrill voice; and he slipped to the ground.

Gilbert was surprised to find himself accepting the situation so calmly. Truth was he was relieved to know he was not in the hands of a posse. To be robbed would be most disagreeable, but as yet he had no fear of physical harm. A posse might string him up, but it would be sadly ironical if the lawless and the law-enforcers should be of the same mind. Also, he believed, such a coincidence was very improbable. He studied Jason thoughtfully and decided the man's permanent grin was a facial peculiarity and not the reflection of a cheerful mood.

Old Misery, speaking slowly, said:

“If 'nough of you brave fellers have come in, and if 'nough guns are p'inted at us so you ain't afraid we'll bu'st loose and bite, we'd like to drop our arms. I'm an old man and I git tired easy.”

“You've got all their weapons, Jason?” piped up the little man. “Good. Now we'll take them inside so they won't catch a sickness from the evening air.”

Loud guffaws of amusement greeted the last. The leader glanced at the weapons and appropriated Gilbert's pocket-knife.

“They're clean as a hound's tooth,” Jason assured the little man.

“You're hoss-thieves,” abruptly spoke up Old Misery.

The men laughed boisterously at this belated discovery.

But Jason, his mouth stretched to the utmost, warned him:

“Your talk is bad.”

He shot forth a hand and caught the mountain man by the beard. The assault was hardly initiated before Misery had kicked the fellow violently on the shin; and as the man grunted in pain and released his hold to bend involuntarily and caress his leg the buckskin-clad knee smashed him in the face.

“I came here to buy grub and a mule, thinking this was a store,” cried the mountain man. “Finding you to be hoss-thieves, I'll take what I need without paying.”

The little man's bead-like eyes twinkled, and he danced aside to give the groaning Jason plenty of room. Growling in rage, Jason whipped out a knife and leaped toward Old Misery. Gilbert thrust out a foot and tripped him on his face. The mountain man scooped up the knife and cast it thirty feet to stick in a small pine. The outlaws remained motionless for a moment, taken completely by surprise at the unlooked for happenings. Now they began crowding forward, mouthing oaths and threats. The leader, cackling merrily, suddenly intervened.

Jason, who would have renewed his attack, received a cuff in the face, and the leader was commanding:

“Enough of this play for now. The old gray rat has made me laugh. I owe him a good supper for that, Plenty of time to pass on their case.”

“We're running from the vigilantes. I'm one of Murieta's men,” announced Old Misery. “I killed Ching-a-ling, Murieta's spy in Nevada City, after the breed told the committee where to find Ana Benites.”

The leader, in strong contrast to his be-whiskered followers because of his thin, clean-shaven face, came close to the mountain man and stared for fully a minute into the frosty blue eyes. There was no jocosity in his thin, penetrating voice as he warned:

“Old man, you've made a strong talk. You're either going to get what you came for without price, or you're going to have your throat cut. Now inside, the two of you. You men see they don't get loose till I've learned certain things.”

“We'll go inside, but don't you make any throat-cutting talk to me, you little runt. Joaquin Murieta has a long arm; one that can reach a knife clear over the Sierra,” loudly cried Old Misery.

“Softly, softly,” advised the small man.

“Loudly, loudly, when I take the notion. You're buying stolen hosses from our men. Murieta can use you fine. But don't go to talking knives to your betters. It ain't for the likes of you to close a trail to me and my young friend.”

“Softly,” repeated the leader in a low voice. His men read the surging rage from the whip-cord veins standing out from eye to ear, and watched in eager silence.

“What's your name? S'pose you're called something,” barked the mountain man.

“I'm called 'Snake' Martin,” gently replied the leader, and his long, thin nose seemed to lengthen as his thin lips curved up. “We'll treat you like kings till we can look into your history. This talk about Ching-a-ling interests me. And you are sure you killed him?”

“By this time they've found his head tied up in one of his Chinese shawls. He gave the girl away to the committee. He killed her old blind grandpap, old Miguel, who went to see him. He was guarded by citizens and promised his liberty for giving the Benites girl away. I killed him in the little room back of his store right after he stabbed old Miguel.”

Gilbert lowered his gaze to conceal his amazement at such prodigious falsehoods. Martin's thin face lost its evil merriment.

“I should be hearing about it very soon,” he muttered.

“Most likely. And just as soon as your men fetch in the hosses they got from Adams' rancho you oughter give 'em a strong combing. Killed two herders they didn't need to kill and got Nevada City to stewing.”

Martin's face grew somber. But his voice was low and soft as he murmured:

“They'll be crossing between the heads of the American and the Carson. If they've been making any unnecessary killings it's bad—for them. Killings are all right so long as Murieta is blamed. That was part of our bargain.”

Wheeling to face Gilbert, he demanded:

“And this young man? Just why is he entitled to our hospitality? Does he ride with Brother Murieta?”

“He's the one who helped him 'scape from the El Dorado at the bay.”

Martin nodded thoughtfully and stared curiously at the Vermonter. The members of the band exchanged surprised glances.

Martin admitted:

“We're heard about that. Talk had it he was an Englishman. But the air grows chill. We'll finish our talk inside.”

The door was opened, and the prisoners were the first to enter. The shutters were removed, and two men kindled a fire and proceeded to cook supper. Martin sat down with his prisoners in a corner, his men keeping to the other end of the room. He proceeded to interrogate them closely. Gilbert had the easier part as he had to tell only about the El Dorado affair. Shrewd enough of wit once he had his cue, his recital left Martin to believe he went to the gambling-place with the Benites girl as part of a prearranged plan to rob the tables. His unhesitating explanations confirmed the reports that Martin already had received.

When it came Old Misery's turn to be questioned he flatly refused to give his name. He said:

“A name don't count. I could give one or a thousand, and you'd know nothing more'n you do now. 'Nough to know I went to Ching-a-ling's place in Nevada City the night the crowds gathered in the street and sent men to block the passes in the ridge. Me 'n' my young partner was chased far up the ridge and got clear by follering the Truckee River down part way, and then bu'sting to one side and taking the travel as we found it. We come in too much of a hustle to outfit with grub or a mule. So we aimed for here.”

“Good. Excellent,” murmured Martin. “It has the ring of truth. It may be true. I'll find out soon. We're hoss-thieves. We steal from ranchos, and we handle the stock Brother Joaquin's men steal. We sell the stock to immigrants in the fall and plan to steal it back before they can drive it over the ridge. Lacking the immigrant trade we sell to the Mormon stations in the Car son Valley, or make a drive even to Salt Lake City, where we have men who sell to the trains. Of course we plan to steal it back when the trains get this far.

“We make other profits from wagon-trains. I'm free, you see, to tell you much. But there's one thing you must remember; I'm boss here. Brother Joaquin is a big man, but I shall be in the saddle long after he's made his last ride. He mixes vengeance with business. Now I'm all business. To be boss I have to have discipline. And even Joaquin himself can't come here and talk only about so loud.”

His soft voice and glittering gaze were very venomous as he gave the warning.

Gilbert wished his companion would restrain himself, but Old Misery laughed in derision and cried:

“The hell he can't! Why, alongside of him you're a fly alongside an eagle.”

“I'm a patient man because I am a strong man,” Martin quietly told him. “But some of my boys are quick tempered and headstrong. They won't like loud talk.”

“And I'm Old Man Trouble!” bawled the mountain man. “I won't hold my tongue till I'm dead. I'm a trouble-hunter. Still I'm a fair-minded man. I stick by what I say. I'm tired of hearing war-talk. S'pose you pick out the strongest cuss you've got, that don't like my ways, and turn us loose for a little fracas. Knives, hatchets, guns, or bows 'n' arrers.”

And his gaze wandered to where a dozen bows and as many filled quivers were piled—a most unusual complement for such a den.

Martin's gaze darted to the grinning visage of Jason, then passed on to a hulking figure leaning against the wall by the open door. And he murmured:

“If I was sure Brother Joaquin would understand! If I knew you really wanted to try your skill! But, no, no. You'd be killed, or badly injured. You'd say you {SIC|}} have a fair chance—”

“A lie, if I did have a fair chance!” angrily broke in Old Misery.

A bit of color showed in the thin cheeks, yet Martin was outwardly composed as he reminded the other.

“You couldn't speak after you were killed. Brother Joaquin would only know you had been knifed to death. On the other hand it's bad for discipline to have you talk so loud. If you're allowed to do it, others might take the notion to try it, and that would be very bad—for them. A man can't be a leader unless he has followers. Now there's Everick—” and he nodded toward the big man by the door—“no, that would never do. He's too much in earnest in his work. Too whole-hearted. Why, I've seen him tear a man to pieces with his bare hands!”

The mountain man gave a snort of disdain and brought the man Everick to his feet, lowering murderously, as he derided:

“Prob'ly found some poor root 'n' grass Injun asleep. If he's such a keen one, then let him 'n' me have a friendly tussle without weepins. I'm free to say that with knife, gun, or hatchet he wouldn't stand no more chance than a Chinaman on a rich claim beyond the ridge.”

The long, thin nose came down, and the thin lips curved up. And Martin smiled grimly and stared at the mountain man with new respect. Gilbert was greatly frightened. He could not understand why his old friend should go out of his way to engage in a brawl, and above all things to select the largest and most brutal-appearing man in the whole reckless band. It fairly nauseated him to think of the outcome of the unequal battle. Everick glared at Old Misery, and then turned pleading eyes on his chief. The others waited with wolfish interest to hear the little man's decision.

Speaking slowly, Martin said:

“If you could be tamed, old man, you'd make a good man for me. As it is you're too audacious, too ambitious. I'm wondering how much of it you mean, and how much is bluff. Everick, listen to me, and remember; there must be no killing. I may be unwise to permit it, but our guest is too insistent.”

Then to Old Misery:

“You're not bound to go into it. Suppose we forget all about it?”

“That's one way of saving your man's hide,” agreed Old Misery.

Everick sounded a bull-like roar and shuffled his feet nervously and waited for the word. The mountain man had convinced himself Martin was the most dangerous one of the band and well worthy of leadership.

“Remove your weapons, Everick, and step outside. When I say stop, you stop. You know me, Everick. Stop when I say the word.”

“I'll heed the word, chief, but this waiting chokes me,” gasped Everick; and he plunged through the doorway and stripped off his blue shirt and stamped his feet impatiently.

“Even now it's not too late. It will soon be dark,” said Martin.

“Don't—do—it,” begged Gilbert in an undertone, and fighting to get each word off his tongue.

“The light will last as long as I need it,” assured the mountain man.

He jumped to his feet and stripped to the waist and revealed the back and shoulders of a man half his years. But what impressed Martin was the many scars on chest and back. There was one especially hideous wound on the upper part of the back near the spine. Martin touched it gently with a finger and said—

“That was very severe, my friend.”

“Bah! That was a bit of fun. I carried eight skulls in the Sun Dance.”

Then to Gilbert he whispered:

“Hold my shirt and the rock-medicine. Open the bag and keep it p'inted toward us. Don't fret. Got to make 'em think we're wakan witshasha. Got to git clear 'fore others come in from over the ridge.”

Then, throwing back his head, he began singing, “Like a Wolf I Roam,” a war-song of the Teton Sioux—

“Sunka isnala miyelo ca, maka oka winhya omawani.”<ref>“Lone Wolf am I, in different places I roam.</ref>

Snake Martin watched him curiously, admiration and a glint of doubt beginning to show in his sharp eyes. He had believed the old man was bluffing; but that network of scars testified to occasions when he must have been terribly in earnest. He had resented the old man's boastful words; now he was wondering if aught short of death could still the audacious tongue.

If not for the lurking fear that Misery was telling the truth when claiming membership in Murieta's band he would have ordered his throat cut on the spot. He was too wayward and assertive to make a valuable member of Snake Martin's band. And yet Martin was convinced that only egotistical insanity could prompt a man of the prisoner's many years to seek a rough-and-tumble fight with Everick.

Everick was roaring impatiently outside the door. Old Misery approached the door slowly with the thudding, stamping steps of a Dakota war-dancer; and as he danced he chanted the meaningless syllables, “he a hi ye—he yo.” He was grotesquely dancing, his head thrown back and rolling from side to side as he reached the door. As his head swung around he saw Gilbert, wild of gaze, following him with the buckskin bag concealed under the hunting-shirt.

Everick stretched out his brawny arms and cursed him foully.

“Be you all ready?” cried Old Misery.

“Damn you! Come out here in reach of my hooks,” roared Everick.

Like an arrow released from a strong bow the mountain man leaped upon him and knocked him flat on his back. Before the astounded thief could get to his feet Misery was clear of his groping hands and was leaping high and smacking his heels together three times. While Everick was on his knees Old Misery darted forward and caught the big fellow between the eyes with his heel and bent the huge bulk far back.

“Curse you, Everick' Get up and give him a fight,” whined Martin from the doorway.

“'A wolf am I, but I've eaten nothing,'” howled the mountain man, dancing with bewildering quickness about his now erect antagonist. “He a hi ye. Bring me a fight, you big cow! I feel cold. Make me sweat into warmth. He yo!”

And Gilbert groaned in terror while the others grunted in pleased anticipation as the mountain man abandoned his dancing tactics and deliberately rushed into the arms of his infuriated opponent.

“My lord! Now he's cooked his kettle!” shrilly rejoiced Martin as he saw the big arms wind around the mountain man.

But Old Misery had both elbows against Everick's hairy chest, and the back-hold was useless so long as he maintained that position. Everick towered a head above Misery, yet he strained and grunted to no purpose. For several minutes they stood without moving from their tracks; then Old Misery butted, his head catching Everick under the chin. And the click of the violently-closed jaws was audible to the breathless spectators.

As the shaggy head went back the arms were relaxed and the mountain man was six feet away, grinning and ruffling his yellowish-white beard and reminding Gilbert:

“The medicine, younker. Tunkan is with me. He a hi ye. Set up a man, you little runt, so I can keep warm.”

“Get that old rat!” screamed Martin to Everick, who stood shaking his head and waiting for the mountain man to attack.

With a booming roar Everick rushed forward, his big hands reached ahead, his fingers wide-spread. Gilbert winked and blinked as Old Misery ducked under an arm and Everick yelled in pain. The Vermonter could not see that his friend had touched the big fellow; yet the latter was shaking a hand and even pausing to caress it.

“He 'most tore his little finger off!” yelled an outlaw.

“'A lone wolf am I, in different places I roam, sang Old Misery, capering around his antagonist. “He yo! I'll bu'st every finger you got, you broken-down beef-critter.”

“Get that man!” whined Martin. “Damn you! Get him, or never show your head in this outfit again!”

All but foaming at the mouth, the infuriated giant leaped at Misery as the latter danced derisively to close quarters.

“He's got him! He's got him!” gleefully howled the savage spectators as the two forms became one, a whirling, confused mass that seemed to be all arms and legs.

“Good work, Everick!” shrilly approved Martin.

With the medicine-bag open, the mouth pointing toward the blurred antagonists, Gilbert watched and held his breath. Suddenly the mass cleaved apart.

“He a hi ye,” panted the mountain man as he stood and looked down at the squirming figure.

“Good lord" gasped Martin. “You old devil! What have you done to him?” And he advanced to kneel beside the prostrate man.

“Nothing much,” replied the mountain man. “Just started to take him apart, like he did for t'other man you was telling 'bout. I'm wakan witshasha. I let up when he wouldn't fight no more. When a man won't fight I just gentle him and hunt for stronger meat.”

Everick groaned and writhed. Martin examined him with practised hand.

“Little finger, lower left leg and right forearm broken,” he diagnosed in a shrill singsong.

Rising and dusting his hands, he directed:

“You men take him inside. José, you fix him up. When he can straddle a horse he rides away.”

“In this sort of fussing I can make every man of your outfit ride away alone,” Old Misery informed him.

“Damn you! Stop that kind of talk!” hissed Martin. “Or I'll forget your claim of being one of Murieta's men and take you on myself.”

“You're the toughest one in this outfit, even if you be undersized and pindling,” readily admitted Old Misery. “You're the only one that could make me watch out.”

“Inside with the two of you.” Then to his men: “If either of them tries to escape, shoot. If they're Murieta's men they're welcome to horses and supplies; but they can't stay once I get word they're all right. If they're lying I'll soon know it, and they'll stay here for all time.”

Inside the cabin Old Misery put on his shirt and hunting-frock and took back his rock-medicine. To Gilbert he confided:

“Keeping it aimed at me done the trick. I could feel Tunkan strength flowing through me. If that critter hadn't quit I'd had him in more pieces than I can sep'rate Solid Comfort into. Well, younker, you'll have to agree that life looks brighter'n it did afore we found these folks. Lawd! How Tom Tobin would 'a' like to been here!”

“It's horrible! Terrible! I feel sick to the stomach,” whispered Gilbert.

Old Misery frowned; then grew placid of visage and declared:

“I'll make a mountain man of you yet. You don't start good, but you'll come to it. After you've had a fuss or two you'll like it prime. Now let's call for some grub.”

CHAPTER XI

SEEDS OF MUTINY

SNAKE MARTIN lounged on the ground apart from his men, his beady eyes glowing evilly as he stared at Everick, who was stretched on blankets some dozen paces from the cabin door. The leader's gaze became speculative as it shifted to Old Misery and Gilbert, seated under a ragged pine. The young man was reading from a book, and Old Misery appeared to be deeply interested, for he had allowed his pipe to go out.

“Good men for me if the old one wasn't brash,” mused Martin. “I could cut his comb, but I'd have to cut his throat first.”

He rose to his feet, strolled over to the pine and remarked:

“I'll share the shade with you.”

Old Misery glanced up impatiently and replied:

“Then squat and keep shet. This is a winter count of the four worst-acting devils you ever heard tell 'bout. Making love and fighting their bigness all over a place called France. Git along, younker. Break the trail to the next scrimmage.”

Although much agitated by the presence of the terrible little man Gilbert managed to control his voice and resume the adventures of “D'Artagnan” and his three friends. Martin listened appreciatively and soon got the atmosphere of the story. He sat with head cocked to one side, his fingers idly snapping dead twigs and methodically arranging them in little piles between his legs. At first Gilbert was ill at ease; then the narrative gripped him and he forgot his peril in following the bold deeds of the irrepressible quartet.

As he finished a chapter and paused to rest his throat Old Misery cried:

“If they wasn't he-hellions then I never swapped lead with a Blackfoot! And I'd 'lowed this was the only place left where they'd fetch you a good fight! If it wa'n't for the ocean I'd like to go over there and watch the fun. Four humdingers, and always hungry for a fuss!”

“What do you think of it, what little you've heard, Mr. Martin?” Gilbert politely inquired.

“I like it,” readily answered Martin, his small eyes snapping. “Mighty clever the way the young fellow read the signs left by the horses. I wouldn't want him to be tracking me. I must tell the men to save all books after this.”

Old Misery filled his pipe and informed Martin:

“The younker can't read all the time. Not 'nough book and not 'nough throat. We're feeling rather cramped. We want to be walking 'bout a bit.”

Martin pulled Gilbert's pocket-knife from his pocket and shaved a dead branch to a needle point and stared thoughtfully at the mountain man. Finally he said:

“You're free to move around in this valley. You have no weapons, no food. You'd be fools to try and run away. If you act the fool you'll be caught and shot in your tracks. If you're not back here two hours before sundown my men start after you with orders to bury you where they find you.”

“You blood-thirsty little cuss" Old Misery cried admiringly. “You'd do just as you say. And that's the worst of it. But folks' idees about time don't always hitch. S'pose you fire two shots when it's time for us to be showing in the open? The younker here believes things happen in the East hours before they happen here, and yet happen just the same time. Only weak spot in him.”

“Difference in time? I supposed every one understood that. Very well; when you hear two shots, close together, you show yourselves in the opening.”

“How's the big ox gitting along?” inquired Misery as he rose to his feet and glanced at Everick.

“José did a good job setting the bones. When he's able to travel he leaves us.”

“Too bad. Best fighting man you've got at that. Sort of hard on him,” remarked the mountain man.

“I told him to get you, and he didn't obey orders,” whined Martin; then, with a shrill laugh, added: “But he's keen to go. He's always been rough with the men. Too many of them holding grudges against him for him to stay on with us. They know his spirit's been broken, and there's half a dozen knives all sharpened for him. I shall have to scheme a little to give him a fair start.”

“That's a fine spirit for a fighting crowd!” heartily endorsed Old Misery. “You've got a mighty good outfit. Man to man they'll stack up better'n Joaquin's. Take him away and Three-Fingered Jack, and the rest are so many rabbits. More I see of this outfit the more I know I'm going to like it. Nothing like a little roughness to sweeten life. Do they ever settle a argument with knives, left arms tied together? A good way, as there's never no doubt 'bout the winner. And some mighty funny things always happen when two men git to whirling round, each trying to get behind t'other.”

“I've tried it twice. It works well,” quietly replied Martin, replacing the knife and dusting his hands. “A small man has a better show than a big man in that style of fighting.”

“You little throat-cutting cuss! Damn me, if I don't like you!” exploded Old Misery. “No need of firing signal-shots. I wouldn't leave this outfit for the best wagon-train ever robbed and burned!”

Martin's brows went up, likewise his thin lips; and the long nose seemed to creep down. But all he said was:

“Brother Joaquin might not like it if I stole two of his best men. Don't forget the signal-shots. They mark the difference between living and dying. If you're on time we'll hear some more of the young man's reading. After the rest of my men arrive with the horses I'll have but little time for pleasure.”

As he walked toward the cabin Old Misery stared after him with round, wide eyes. Then he spat and hissed:

“The pizen snake! He's named right! We've got two big jobs ahead of us. To make him feel like letting us live, but to be keen for us to sing a travel-song and git out. Come along, younker.”

“Can we run for it?” eagerly whispered Gilbert.

“Without guns or grub? No, no. We can't go back over the ridge, and the road east is through a bad country. But remember this: Snake Martin is as bad a fiend as Joaquin Murieta. He'll kill just as quick, and he'll never give t'other feller any show at all. You saw them bows and arrers in the cabin? I got hold of one last night long enough to see it never was made by a Injun. They're 'nough to show me what sort of hellions we've stumbled on to. Murieta hates 'Mericans. He come to the gold-fields in 'forty-nine, when he was only eighteen. Worked north from Los Angeles into the Stanislaus country and located a rich placer.

“Gold-hunters, always trying to boss greasers round, ordered him out, and he quit. Then it was said he stole a horse he happened to be riding. Joaquin said it was his half-brother's hoss. So they hung the half-brother and tied Joaquin to the same tree and laid on the whip. Then he begun robbing and murdering. Killed any one he come across except Mexicans. They're all his friends. But he sticks by his friends. He keeps his word, I believe. I saved his life, not knowing who he was, and he wrote his name on that monte-card to show I wasn't to be robbed or killed. But he's bad. He's got to be killed.

“Now Snake Martin never was whipped that I know of. He's 'Merican blood, and he kills 'Mericans. Them bows 'n' arrers tell me he rigs his men up like Injuns and raids wagon-trains. Leaves arrers in the dead. If any one gits away from the train he'll say Injuns did it. Then the Utes are blamed. So, in a way, he's worse'n Murieta.”

“But what will become of us? We can't even pretend to join them,” muttered Gilbert as they walked along the edge of the growth.

“A man can pretend almost anything up to a certain p'int,” mumbled Old Misery, his gaze troubled as he glanced at his melancholy companion. “My rock-medicine has been all right so far. It covered both of us in my fight with the big ox. Didn't really need any medicine to best him—I take that back. I needed it powerful bad.”

Then in a low whisper, as if fearing Tunkan might overhear and resent, he explained:

“No good to talk light 'bout any medicine. A medicine is mighty techy. More so if it's a strong one.”

And thoroughly to appease the god of the rocks he loudly declared:

“I'll make a feast to Tunkan. I'll place rocks in trees in the first rock-medicine place I come to.”

And he hummed a Sacred Stone song and turned deeper into the growth.

Once under cover he halted and motioned for Gilbert to crouch low and look back. Three men, carrying rifles, were leaving the cabin. Two were making for the growth on the prisoners' side of the valley. The other was entering the timber on the opposite side.

“They're following to murder us!” gasped Gilbert, the black wings sounding very close.

“They'd all be coming along this side if that was their notion. Martin sends 'em to dog our steps. Now if you was Tobin we'd lay for them two and take their guns and hustle round and bag the third man, and then hold up the cabin and clean out the whole gang. As it is you 'n' me might jump the two and do for 'em and take their guns and run for it! But that wouldn't give us hosses, or grub. Besides, Solid Comfort is back in the cabin, and it's a wakan gun and I won't leave it. We'll trail along a bit and let 'em pass us.”

When near the end of the valley the mountain man halted in a group of stunted pines. Soon they heard steps and low voices, and Old Misery grinned and whispered:

“A wounded buff'ler could out-Injun 'em.”

The two men came up, moving slowly and without any pretense at woodcraft. Nor were they interested in their business of spying on the prisoners. They took advantage of their isolation from the band to halt near the pines and exchange confidences. One of them was saying:

“Don't care so far as Everick's concerned. But if he's told to ride for it, then any one of us can be booted out.”

“Well, he was licked. He'll be no good after this,” growled the second man. “And he won't ride far if I can git the drop on him.”

“That ain't it. The chief shows his disposition in booting him out. What about Everick's share that the chief's hid somewhere and says he's going to divide with the gang when we split up?”

“Everick don't git it. He don't git nothing,” rejoiced the second man.

“We don't want him to get it. But do we get our share? That's the point. No one knows where it's hid except the chief. Bernie, the Frenchman, knew. He helped bury it. But Bernie's dead. I'm mighty sorry Bernie cashed in.”

“The derned fool would keep filled up on whisky,” grumbled the second man.

“True. But he was a man who always kept filled up on whisky. Queer it should kill him just as it did. Maybe he worked so hard in hiding the stuff to weaken his heart.”

Suspicion at last had found lodgment in the second man's slow wits, and he glared at his companion wildly and exclaimed:

“Good lord, Bommer! You mean—”

“I don't mean a thing,” hastily interrupted Bommer. “You just remember I haven't said a thing, Somes. I've talked more with you than with any of the others, but even now I don't know as I know you well enough to say things.”

“Bommer, I can be trusted. I never shoot off my mouth,” Somes hoarsely assured him. “We're alone. You talk. I'd die before I'd whisper a word.”

Bommer stared at his companion searchingly for a few moments and then reminded him:

“Chief would kill me for what little I've said already, Somes. You're the only man I'd tell what little I've already said. But I did you a good turn once, and I don't believe you'd—”

“Not for all the gold that ever was stole,” eagerly broke in Somes. “I ain't quick at thinking, but I ain't no snake. You talk. You do the thinking and tell me what to do. There's a share of that stuff that's coming to me, and by the lord I'm going to have it, or die in my boots!”

“Not so loud,” cautioned Bommer. “Ike will be coming round from the other side. No one in the gang knows where the stuff's hid now that Bernie's dead—from drinking whisky—and arsenic.”

Somes scratched his head, then scowled malignantly and gritted: “Snake Martin ain't got no charmed life!”

“Ah, Somes, you're mistaken. He has. No one in the gang will want him dead until it's known where the stuff is hid. Everick loses his share. The rest of us already have lost our shares unless we find the hiding place.”

“Ain't there 'nough of the boys to corner him and burn it out of him,” demanded Somes in a thick voice.

Bommer smiled wickedly and reminded him:

“If we did that, then we'd sit down, with guns handy, to divide in equal shares. Probably there would be some fighting. Every man dead would mean so much more for those left alive. But suppose you and I learn where it's hidden. How many shares would there be then?”

Somes gaped at him blankly for a moment, then began to grin as intelligence percolated to his slow brain. The grin became a silent laugh, a paroxysm of noiseless mirth, and he leaned against a tree. When he could speak he softly cried:

“You've got a head, Bommer! Comes of having a eddication. Two shares, of course, just you 'n' me!”

And he resumed his silent laughing.

“Stop it!” warned Bommer. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Don't try to talk to me before the others. Some time the chief will visit the hiding-place. It's near here. He and Bernie were gone only a few hours from the cabin. He probably kept away that long to make us think they had traveled some distance. But the pack-mule hadn't wet a hair. I was quick to see that much.”

“Eddication again!” enthusiastically murmured Somes.

“This game is about up. Once Murieta goes under we'll stop running off stock. While he lives and takes the blame we can keep on buying from him and stealing direct. Murieta can't last much longer. They're bound to get him. When we can't steal stock we must bu'st up. The other line is too dangerous. Wagon-trains will come through heavily guarded. Just keep your eyes open and tell me what you see. I'll do the thinking.”

They resumed their trailing. Old Misery rose and held a finger to his lips and led the way back toward the east and deeper into the growth. They came to a little natural opening, of not more than two acres in ex tent, and threw themselves on the ground. Gilbert's gaze wandered to several mounds in the middle of the glade, and with a little shiver he exclaimed:

“Folks are buried there. Poor unfortunates. Wonder who they were!”

“Too many such out this way for a man to spend his time guessing who's in 'em,” muttered the mountain man. “You heard what them two men said? Martin's a slipperier cuss then I thought. He's corralled all the gang's stealings, and no one wants him dead till they find out where the stuff's hid. The man Bommer prob'ly had the right of it in thinking they hid the stuff near the cabin, then killed a few hours.”

“And the Frenchman is dead!”

“Most naturally. His bad luck in helping to hide the stuff. Pizened by Martin. I'll keep an eye on that skunk. This gang's going to bu'st up soon. We mustn't be hit by any of the pieces. We've got to get away, but not make it a running fight less we have to. They've got to think we're bad ones. We must make Martin hanker to be rid of us without killing us. No matter what I do, or say, you sit tight. It's a bad mess. Worse'n I thought at first. But I started to make a mountain man out of you, and I'll do it if I have to make hell hoot and hum. Now take out that book and make believe you're reading to me. Don't look round. We'll soon have comp'ny.”

Gilbert pulled out his story-book and began reading in an undertone. Old Misery, lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, from the corner of his eye watched the figure of a man standing at the edge of the growth on his right.

“He ain't in hearing of us,” he murmured. “And he ain't either of them two who was trailing us like a yoke of cattle. Just keep on reading and act a little s'prised if he comes up.”

Several minutes passed; then a soft step sounded behind them, and the mountain man came to a sitting posture and turned and beheld Snake Martin. The outlaw leader dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged, and remarked:

“You didn't walk very far?”

“Nearly to the end of the valley. Then turned back. Felt sort of crowded down there. Wanted to be alone.”

“Some of my men, eh? But I gave them orders not to bother you.”

“They didn't. This opening oughter graze a few hosses.”

Martin pulled out Gilbert's knife and began sharpening twigs, and remarked:

“Men don't like this place. Superstitious fools. Afraid of a few graves. So we pasture the stock in an opening south of the valley. We plan to keep only our riding-horses in the valley.”

Old Misery stirred uneasily and confessed:

“I don't like graves. Don't mind a man drying in a tree, but to be put under ground! That's 'nough to make any ghost git up on his hind legs and hoot. I'm just like a Crow in that way; never want to be hid under ground. They some of your men?”

“Some of the Donner party,” replied Martin in his high-pitched voice. “I've lost no men here. Those dropped out on a raid are left for others to bury. We haven't time. But we've been lucky. Lost only four men in two seasons. If I kept them on the other side of the ridge where they could get to a town they'd all be killed off in one season. This makes a good camp for us.”

“A humdinger,” agreed the mountain man. “No one to bother you except a prospector now 'n' then, I s'pose.”

Martin smiled in his peculiar manner and shrilly as sured Misery: “They don't bother us.”

“Good place. I like it,” mumbled Misery. “Sorter grows on a man. Our time nearly up?”

Martin glanced at the sun and decided: “It'll be an hour before the cook gives the signal.”

With that he rose and carefully brushed his clothes and put up the knife.

Old Misery also stood and decided:

“Reckon we'd best walk back with you. Cook's idee of time and yours might not hitch. And them fellers in the woods might think we was ghosts and go to blazing at us if they saw us quitting this place.”

“Perhaps you'd be safer if you rested on the other side of the valley,” said Martin. “The men get nervous.”

He led the way but did not, the mountain man observed, take a direct course. He traveled east through the growth and left it at a point a short distance back of the log house. As the three approached the house Bommer and Somes emerged from the south side of the valley, having all but traveled around it. A minute later the third man came out of the growth on the north side.

Old Misery and Gilbert were greeted with sullen glances as they seated themselves near the open door.

Martin walked over to Everick and told him:

“You'll have to bunk out here. Your damnable groaning keeps the men awake.” Then he turned to the swarthy Mexican, who had been examining the splints on the leg and arm.

“Hurry him along, José, so he can sit in a saddle. We may be taking a ride soon and have to leave him alone.”

“Sí, Senor. He is doing ver' well,” humbly replied the Mexican.

“But, Chief Just a minute,” loudly pleaded Everick. “Hoss 'n' gun ain't 'nough. I brought that much to the band. I've worked hard for you. But you don't say nothing about my share—”

Bommer nudged Somes in the ribs. Martin pushed the Mexican back and dropped on his knees beside the wounded man. Bending over him, he talked rapidly in a shrill, whining tone. None but Everick heard what he said, but all knew the menace of that wailing, whining voice. When he rose and brushed his knees and leisurely started for the house Everick did not endeavor to detain him. José glided to his patient and observed that the broad face was dotted with perspiration.

Martin halted before the group, flicked a swift glance over the stolid, bearded faces, and with a laugh informed them:

“Now that he knows he must go he can't go quick enough. He'd try to ride to-night if I'd say the word.”

Turning, he called out: “Isn't that the case, Everick?”

“Yes, yes!” groaned the wounded man. “For God's sake, let me go now!”

“You men see how glad he is to leave us,” resumed Martin, and the long, thin nose seemed to be creeping down over the upcurved lips. “But we must look out for Everick and keep him till he's able to ride. We must be fair with Everick. We mustn't be too harsh in judging him. It's true he failed when he should have won. But we had overestimated him. We must try to believe he did all he could. However, we have no room for him. He must go. Already he's out of the band. That means none of you have any truck with him, no more'n if he was a stranger. José will wait on him and tell me if any man breaks the rules.”

Bommer drove his elbow into Somes' side. The others remained stolid of face.

Martin entered the house and called out: “Time to take a drink.”

The men filed through the doorway.

Old Misery whispered to Gilbert:

“Don't git the notion I'm on the rampage after I take a few snorts. No matter what I do, it's just my game. We've got to git out of here quick. Martin lied about the graves. None of the Donner party was down this far. None was buried down here. They weren't trapped till they got up on the Truckee. My medicine tells me I must do two things; make 'em think we're what we claim to be—Joaquin's men; and make 'em keen to have us clear out.”

He came to his feet and sounded a ringing war-whoop and bustled through the doorway. The men holding filled dippers, or in the act of filling them, stared at him wrathfully. He grinned benignly and told Jason of the exposed teeth:

“Don't look sour at me, old hoss-fly. Boss called for the thirsty to gather, and I'm dryer'n a patch of alkali. Some one gimme a dipper.”

It was Snake Martin who accommodated him. His small eyes were points of fire as he stared at the mountain man.

Old Misery poured a big drink and demanded:

“What are we waiting for? Nothing wrong with the drink is there?”

Bommer's hand twitched and slopped out some of the liquor.

Old Misery continued: “Here's to a fat season, with a fat share to every man.”

Some started to drink, including Bommer and Somes.

Jason remarked: “It's the first I've heard tell you was one of us.”

“I was just wishing you well. You'll all need good wishes afore the season's over. If the younker 'n' me ain't in the gang we will be soon.”

Martin softly inquired: “Why do you think that?”

“I don't 'think.' I know,” stoutly replied Misery. “Lawdy! But you fellers need new blood. Same lot of you been so long together that you're splitting up in pairs. Every pair is feeling harsh toward the rest. You need new men to jumble you all together in one happy, band again. But the 'new men' must be men you can count on to toe the mark. I've rid with Joaquin. I'm a he-grizzly b'ar.

“My partner saved Joaquin's life. He's a reg'lar panther prowling round to make a kill. We had to light out and leave Joaquin. He'd be glad to have us back. But we knew it was time for us to pull out. Trouble with you folks is you're tied up too close to him. It's bad medicine.”

“Stop your ranting and tell what you mean by that last,” shrilly demanded Martin.

“Meaning you'll bu'st to pieces when Joaquin's potted if you don't make new trails. You oughter quit waiting for him to steal hosses and turn 'em over to you. Oughter quit working for him and work for yourselves. Oughter have a good camp up on the ridge, north of the Truckee. Then you'd be fixed so's you could make quick raids down to the towns and back to camp. If a posse stumbled on your camp you could fall back to this side of the ridge to this place. Then go up the slope when the posse went back to town. There's too much waiting in the way you fellers play the game.”

Snake Martin's voice sounded faint and thin as he assured Misery:

“My friend, there will not be much more waiting. Be patient.”

“H'ray! Knew you was sensible. Bad for a gang to have too much time on its hands. Men git out of temper and sour. Lots of action and blooding needed to keep a parcel of men up to top-notch. That liquor's wakan. It makes my toes curl. Let's have 'nother snort and go outside and have some fun. Time passes like a mortal wounded buf'ler when we just squat and do nothing.”

“Be patient,” repeated Martin. “There'll not be much more waiting.”

The thieves exchanged significant glances, and several smiled furtively as they believed they had caught their leader's hidden meaning. Their manner changed, and instead of lowering on the mountain man they now smiled wolfishly and grinned much; and they nodded ironically to him as they lifted their dippers, as if wishing him health and happiness.

Of all the group only Bommer agreed with the mountain man's opinion. Ever since returning with Somes from the woods he had been trying to understand how the two strangers had eluded him. As he sensed the chief's hostility to the newcomers he discovered his own feelings were almost sympathetic.

The second drink seemed to have a quick effect on the mountain man. He commenced a shuffling dance, and on reaching the pile of bows and arrows he picked up a bow and snatched an arrow from the quiver.

Instantly Martin had him covered with a revolver and was crying: “Drop that!”

With a foolish grin Old Misery discarded the weapons and complained:

“Not an ounce of fun in the whole outfit. Think I was going to hold you up with a bow 'n' arrer?”

“Never mind what I thought. No more drinking, boys.”

Then back to Old Misery—

“First thing you know you'll stir up more fun than you can take care of.”

“Mebbe,” cheerfully admitted Misery. “But it'll be because I don't have a square shake. Just ask Joaquin Murieta what he thinks of me. He'll tell you I can lick a tribe of panthers in a knife-scrimmage, steal more hosses then you ever grazed in these parts; and that I've tossed away more dust than you folks ever stole.”

Again the veins over the leader's temples stood out like whipcords, and his men were quick to read the sign and give ground. Those nearest the door slipped out.

Martin's voice was so faint as to be scarcely audible as he told Misery:

“Damn you and your gall! You're digging your grave with your tongue. Think my boys, or I, will stand for such high talk much longer?”

“High talk?” scoffed the mountain man. “Why, I ain't said a word yet that I can't make good. Ask Murieta what he thinks of Old Man Trouble-Hunter. Ask any of his men how many thousands in dust I've tossed away to them that needed. Ask—”

His repeated reference to his generosity enraged Martin to the breaking-point; and with a hissing intake of breath he yanked a gun from his trousers and slowly brought it down, full-cocked. Gilbert, staring through the window, held his fist to his mouth to keep from screaming in terror.

Bommer hoarsely ventured:

“The old fool is drunk, Chief.”

With a swing of his head Martin whined:

“Damn you, Bommer! Fingers in my dish? I don't like it. You boys know I don't like it.”

And even Bommer's eyes fell before the flaming glance.

“I am mato wapiya—grizzly b'ar medicine,” shouted Old Misery. “Reckon I'll give the b'ar dance.”

And as Martin was resuming his threatening pose the mountain man dropped his hands before him and commenced an awkward, ludicrous dance, his head rolling from side to side, as tame bears in the coast towns were taught to do. Martin stood rigid, the revolver aimed, but the antics of the grotesque figure caused the onlookers to forget the impending tragedy, and furtive smiles grew into broad grins as the mountain man assumed the double rôle of trainer and animal, and gave orders and obeyed them.

With a terrible oath, but spoken in a peevish falsetto, Martin thrust his gun into his waistband and complained—

“I can't shoot the old fool when he's drunk; but I will when he's sober.”

“Here comes a man riding hard!” yelled Gilbert at the window.

Martin, followed by all in the cabin, hurriedly passed outside. The newcomer was riding at a smart gallop, but not pressing his mount. Somes was the first to recognize him and called out:

“Reelfoot Williams!”

Martin advanced toward the outlaw and waved his hand in greeting. Obviously he held Williams in some esteem. The bandit leaped from his horse and shook hands with Martin and nodded genially to the men. The latter admired him for being a lone worker and one who could take desperate chances.

When Williams' gaze lighted on Old Misery he looked the surprise he was feeling, and exclaimed:

“You here, old man? Well, I'm not trying to hold you up again.”

And he laughed at his recollections.

“You know this man, Reelfoot?” eagerly asked Martin.

“Know him? Not long since I held him up on the ridge about Nevada City. He had a rare bag of nuggets. And what do you think? I didn't take it.”

And he laughed more heartily.

“No, no. They were not for Reelfoot Williams. Met Rattlesnake Dick right after to work in harness for a big pot. Told him about it. And he said the same. He wouldn't 'a' touched them if he'd stood in my boots. Remember, old man, what I said? 'Not any for me, thank you.' Good joke on me, Martin. There I had dogged him from town, where he'd been giving nuggets to Chinamen, and then I held him up and opened his bag of gold—and didn't take it!”

“Just what are you driving at, Reelfoot?” cried Martin, sensing a mystery and therefore feeling uneasy.

“The first thing I saw in the bag was a monte card, with 'amigo' written on it, and signed by Murieta. Joaquin's card, you know. Telling all us bold boys this man was not to be bothered. I never worked with the greaser; he does too much unnecessary killing, but I won't go out of my way to make him mad. Oh, no. The minute I saw that card I knew I didn't want any of that game. No, sir! Same old cuss who threw a lariat around Murieta and pulled him out the American when he was about to drown. But how comes it he is on this side the ridge? Quit Murieta to take on with your boys?”

“I was just about to kill him,” softly explained Martin. “He talks too much. Makes my head ache by always telling what a hell of a fellow he is. I intended to wait and find out the truth about him, but his talk was driving me crazy just as you rode in. Came here yesterday with a young man. Done nothing since except brag how he can lick any man in any kind of a fight—”

“I can do it. It ain't bragging,” broke in Old Misery.

“There! You hear him?” wailed Martin, the veins over his temples congesting again.

It struck Reelfoot Williams as being very humorous, and he laughed loudly and clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder and drew him to one side. They talked for some minutes. When they returned to the doorway Martin's anger had vanished. He briefly announced:

“Williams speaks in his favor. Also says it's true about the young man helping Murieta escape at the bay.”

“And that he must have helped Ana Benites, one of Joaquin's band, to escape a posse,” reminded Williams. “And that Jaoquin's Nevada City spy, Vesequio, who betrayed the girl, was found with his head cut off.”

“What did I tell you folks?” proudly asked Old Misery. “Now be you ready to believe I've a right to wear eagle feathers?”

“We're believing you're entitled to horses, a mule, and your weapons, and a clear road,” quietly replied Martin. “But if it hadn't been for that crazy bear dance you'd be dead.”

Gilbert advanced to stand beside his friend, his face shining with joy at the prospects of an immediate departure from the terrible place. He groaned inwardly as Old Misery persisted:

“But I was hankering to join this outfit.”

Hope returned to the young man's heart when Martin shook his head firmly and declared:

“Impossible. You need too much room. There's not enough room for you and me in the same outfit. Your talk makes me think red. I'd have to shoot you to stop your tongue.”

“If I wasn't playing a lone hand I'd take you on in a second, old man,” said Williams. “But I couldn't take both of you even if I wanted a partner. Three's an awkward number. In a running fight always one has to go it alone. Might blab to save his neck. Then again, California isn't what it used to be. It's getting well organized. Gang work is playing out. Another season will see the electric telegraph hooking up the northern and southern camps and towns. It's got so a man to make a decent living must work fast and sly and ride alone.”

“Then what about Murieta?” anxiously asked Old Misery.

“Think you were wise to cross the ridge,” promptly replied Williams. “They're bound to get him. Think they'll get him this season. His band is too big. Rewards offered for him dead or alive are growing too fast. Too many posses after him.”

Old Misery gravely asked Martin:

“When can we start? We're ready any time. S'long as you don't want us the quicker we're 'bout our business the better.”

Gilbert drew his first free breath since coming to the cabin.

“I'll send a man to the grazing grounds for mounts and a mule. Your weapons are in the cabin. You can get away to-morrow morning. In the meantime you're your own men, of course. Go where you will, do what you will, but stop that cursed boasting. I couldn't stand it even from Murieta himself.”

“You've got some dust and a blanket roll of mine. Take pay for the horses and mule out of it,” said Misery.

Martin grinned sardonically and retorted: “Sorry, but there's just about enough dust to square the shot.”

“Let it go at that,” calmly agreed Old Misery, although his averted gaze was dangerous. “Reckon I know where to pick up plenty more. We'll catch up and ride in the morning.”

Williams left his horse to graze in front of the cabin while he entered and ate. He was in a mood of reckless jollity and impressed the men as having much respect for Old Misery. Martin did not relish this, but contented himself with ordering a man to bring two mounts and a pack-mule from the southern grazing grounds. He stressed the importance of haste in bringing up the animals.

“We're making for the Humboldt road. Riding our way?” asked the mountain man of Williams.

“Starting back to-night by way of the Walker River country. They were hot on my trail, and I had to cross and lose myself. If I can hit the head of the south fork of the American I can make Frisco. Safest place for me just now. I'll have to light out for good pretty soon. May try Salt Lake City. Join the church, you know. You'd better be pulling out as soon as you can or some one will be coming over the ridge to find you.”

“Looked like the game was played out when I quit,” said Old Misery. And with that he rejoined Gilbert, who was nervously waiting outside the house, and he pleased the young man by suggesting:

“Let's take a walk and find out what that young hellion of a Dart Again has been doing.”

With the exception of Bommer and Somes, and José, who was waiting on Everick, the gang was inside the long house hungrily listening to the talk of Martin and Williams. Old Misery led the way toward the woods, fringing the south side of the valley. José, the Mexican, cut across his course, and the mountain man saw a knife slip from the red sash. He picked it up and called in Spanish for the man to turn back and get what he had lost.

José turned back and thanked him in broken English. Old Misery answered in Spanish, telling him he was welcome.

Then José, in his own tongue, hurriedly said:

“I dropped the knife so I could speak with senor. I am a friend to any one who helps one of our women. You helped Senorita Ana Benites. You saved the great Joaquin's life. My life would be lost if the comandante knew that I know what I know. Lost again if he knew I was telling you. He took your bag of gold into the woods on the north side while you and the men were sleeping. I was up, waiting on the sick man. He came back, without the gold.”

Old Misery nodded and resumed his way.

“What was the fellow jabbering about?” asked Gilbert.

“Said our gold is hid on the opposite side of this valley. I'm hankering to take it along with me. That bag must be worth more'n a thousand dollars.”

“Let's forget the gold and get away from here,” begged Gilbert. “I'm more afraid of these men, especially that Martin, than I'd ever be of Indians. He gives me the shivers.

“We'll clear out soon's we can. But this gang isn't of much account, 'cept in talk. Blood-hungry all right, but they can be tamed,” calmly assured Old Misery. “My medicine has pulled us through this far. I've made them think we're their kind, and I've made Martin hanker to have us go. He made one bad mistake. He oughter been white 'nough to hand back my bag of nuggets. His mind's narrer. He may lose his pelt by trying to keep that bag.”

They entered the woods and followed along the edge for half the length of the valley before Old Misery found a spot that suited him. Then he lighted his pipe and Gilbert picked up the adventurous trail of D'Artagnan. But the young man turned only a few pages before the mountain man was interrupting him by saying:

“Reckon I'll scout south toward the hoss-herd. Hosses are nearer than Martin let on. You wait here for me. If any one comes along it's all right to tell where I went. We're free men now.”

“I'll believe that when we've left this place and those men. It'll be dark soon.”

“If the hosses ain't close by I'll go until I strike the trail from the house. If I ain't showed up when it gits along the edge of dark you can go back to the cabin. If they ask 'bout me say I struck off to the south to have a look at the hosses.”

Gilbert disliked being left alone but was ashamed to say as much. He watched his friend disappear in the growth to the south and then returned to his book. Old Misery, however, walked but a short distance before changing his course to travel west. Moving with the long, even stride of his kind, he soon turned the end of the valley and was traveling along the north side to the east.

When about opposite Gilbert's position he worked deeper into the growth and did not pause until on the west side of the small opening containing the graves. Then he crawled under the low-hanging branches of a scrub evergreen, and sucked his cold pipe, and waited with the patience of a red man.

The shadows crept deeper into the opening. Squirrels played in and about the covert, never suspecting the motionless figure possessed life. At last Old Misery put up his pipe, shifted to a sitting posture and muttered:

“Some risky if I'm seen prowling round out there; but Tunkan is with me. Nothing like a rock-medicine if you're keen to search under ground. Martin will be talking and drinking with Williams. T'others keep clear of this place along of the ghosts.”

He came to his feet, yet hesitated. Neither did he relish trespassing on the burial ground. Because of his strong horror of earth burials he firmly believed victims of interment always felt resentful and hovered about their graves. Then Snake Martin walked rapidly from the south end of the opening, entering at the point where Gilbert and Misery had lounged under a tree and the former had pointed out the graves.

Old Misery smiled grimly and patted the bag holding his rock-medicine. Surely Tunkan had directed him wisely, and his luck was greater than he had had reason to expect. He had believed he must make the search for the hidden bag of gold in person, and now another had come who would save him that trouble. Martin was in a hurry and was carrying what appeared to be a ramrod. He kept his head swinging suspiciously from side to side as he approached the graves.

He halted at the first mound and turned and stared about. Remaining stationary, he rested both hands on top of the iron rod. After holding this posture for some moments he wheeled and walked beyond the graves for some distance, then swung to the east side of the opening and disappeared into the timber.

“Clever cuss!” muttered Old Misery. “Only needs a few seconds with that ramrod to make sure his stealings is where he left 'em.”

And without prosecuting his search farther he withdrew and ran rapidly to the west. Rounding the end of the valley, he struck deep into the growth and did not shift his course until about due south of Gilbert's position. When he broke through the last cover he beheld Gilbert standing, book in hand.

“I'm mighty glad you came back!” exclaimed Gilbert.

“Who's been along since I quit you?”

“Not a soul. But it was tedious waiting.”

“Won't have to wait any more. No one knows we ain't been together all the time, and we'll let it go that way. We've been killing time and you've been reading to me 'bout Dart Again. Now we'll go back and eat a bite.”

“What good did your wandering do you? See the horses?” asked Gilbert.

“No; never saw a hoss, but they ain't far off. Feet git to itching if I stay too long in one place. Medicine told me to walk round a bit.”

On arriving at the house they found Reelfoot Williams had taken his departure. Old Misery's first act was to enter the house and pick up Solid Comfort and examine him carefully. Snake Martin watched him, but made no objection. Then the mountain man selected his revolver and long knife from a shelf and found Gilbert's rifle.

“You seem to be in a hurry,” spoke up Martin in his thin voice. “Going to start on foot?”

“Nary a start on foot when we've paid for hosses and a mule,” replied Old Misery. “Paid a good price, too. Nigh on to two thousand dollars in that bag you took from me.”

“Two hundred is nearer right,” snarled Martin. “You're lucky to have your heads on your shoulders.”

“Well, we ain't thanking you for our heads.”

“Your blankets are in the corner. That makes all your property, I believe.”

“You're forgitting the younker's pocket-knife,” reminded Misery.

“He's lost that. I warn you to talk about something else,” said Martin softly.

“I don't want it! Let him have it!” nervously whispered Gilbert, tugging the mountain man's sleeve.

“Just as you say, younker, but it's foolish to heave away property like that. I could trade that knife for a prime war-pony with any plains tribe. You'll never git anything ahead for a rainy day if you make presents so free-hearted. An', Martin, I never took kindly to being 'warned.' Let's understand you've warned us for the last time, and the next time you'll begin to show your mettle. Now what time can we start from this place? Early morning?”

Martin was in a most venomous mood and perhaps regretted allowing the two to have their weapons.

“The man will bring the horses and mule to the south edge of the clearing very soon. I'll send a man to tell him to fetch them here. The quicker you two light out after he comes the better it'll suit me and the safer it'll be for you.”

Old Misery grinned widely and reminded:

“'Nother of them warnings. But it's simply 'mazing how our minds have the same thoughts. You want us to go, and we want to go. First, the hosses couldn't be fetched till midnight! Now they'll come up almost any time.”

Martin, fighting to hold his temper under control, went outside. Bommer, who had been lounging in the doorway, entered to take a drink and murmured to Old Misery:

“Better quit pestering him. He's blood-mad.”

“Thanky kindly. Some of you fellers oughter kill the skunk.”

“How much dust was in the bag he took?” rapidly whispered Bommer.

“Rising two thousand dollars. Clean nuggets; not dust.”

Bommer lowered the jug and hastily made for the door. Old Misery threw himself on a bunk and told Gilbert:

“If you wa'n't along I'd stay here and watch things bu'st up. Snake Martin's going to lose all his rattles if he ain't mighty careful.”

“I wouldn't stay here a minute longer than absolutely necessary for a million dollars!” muttered Gilbert.

“I wouldn't neither. Man with a million dollars needs a stronger medicine than I ever could scare up. I don't know just how much a million dollars is, but I know it's a million troubles; and that's a heap. Think I'll snooze a bit till they cook supper. We'll soon be on our way. This is just something that's happened, that's all. You'll laugh when you tell 'bout it a year from now.”

Gilbert did not feel that he could ever laugh again. He sat beside the bunk and in the rapidly failing light attempted to distract his mind by reading the story-book. But there was not enough wizardry even in Dumas to keep the sinister figure of Snake Martin from his thoughts. It was the insatiable cruelty of the man, his bloody ruthlessness, that appalled Gilbert. Physically he was contemptible. Exemplifying evil he was monstrous. Fortunately for Gilbert's peace of mind Martin remained outside.

Once the young man heard him cursing Everick in a shrill, wailing voice, and his blood grew cold from fear that murder was being done. Bommer and Somes came and sat in the doorway, and exchanged words without glancing at each other. Others of the gang sprawled out on the grass and smoked, and recounted various gruesome bits of history. That they should feel proud and boastful of their crimes amazed Gilbert. At last a man entered and raked the coals in the fire place together and commenced cooking the evening meal. Bommer and Somes left the doorway. Martin entered briskly and stopped before the bunk and stared at Old Misery. Gilbert held his breath and waited. Martin's hand dropped to the handle of a revolver in the waist-band of his trousers, then came away empty. Without a word he turned and began pacing up and down the long room. Gilbert knew the outlaw leader was in a black mood and surreptitiously shook his friend by the shoulder.

Old Misery rolled on his side and murmured:

“Hand-gun under the blanket. Had him covered all the time. He was never closer to hell than when he felt for his gun.”

The fire had succeeded in heating up a kettle of cooked meat and the cook carried it outside together with an apology for bread. Martin continued walking up and down the room. Old Misery yawned and slipped from the bunk and tucked Solid Comfort under his arm and startled both Martin and the young man by sounding his war-whoop.

Then he explained:

“Grub' I smell grub. B'iled meat. Always hoot when meat's ready.”

He hurried outside, and Gilbert kept at his heels. Bommer and Somes drew back as if making room for them. The others, now ranged in a circle around the kettle, affected not to be aware of their presence; but they could not resist stealing frequent glances at the man who Reelfoot Williams had said was Joaquin Murieta's friend, as well as the slayer of the spy who had betrayed one of Murieta's band.

Martin came from the house and helped himself to a dish of the meat and sat down outside the circle. Jason took a position near his chief, his grinning teeth tearing wolfishly at the food.

Old Misery broke the silence by tossing a slab of bread aside and condemning it:

“That's damn poor chawing. Oughter had my young pard here make you some bread.”

“You won't have to put up with our bread long,” gently Martin reminded him. “It's the best we have. We're sorry you don't like it.”

“Beggars shouldn't go to finding fault,” huskily remarked Jason between his closed teeth.

“Any one says we're beggars is a liar,” complacently retorted Misery; and Gilbert quailed. “We've paid Frisco prices for all the grub we eat. And that bread's damn poor. Them as like it that way are lucky.”

Silence followed this reiterated reminder concerning the bag of gold. Bommer nudged Somes with his elbow. The circle of men stiffened; then came the scuffling of heels drawn back as if the men were making ready to leap up and dodge bullets. But Martin, staring at Old Misery, said nothing. José came up to the kettle and dished out two helpings and turned to take them back to the helpless Everick. Because of the gathering darkness he did not see Martin's outstretched leg and tripped over it. The leader exploded in a high-pitched yell and kicked the man savagely. José muttered apologies and limped away.

The men hastily finished eating and drew farther back from the kettle, each sensing a sinister tension. Old Misery continued eating, watching Martin. He felt Bommer press his arm in warning as the outlaw rose to withdraw. The mountain man continued eating, using his left hand only, his right resting on Solid Comfort, which was cradled in his lap, the muzzle toward Jason and Martin. Martin suddenly rose and entered the house. Old Misery shifted his position to where Bommer was standing. The latter began filling his pipe and from the corner of his mouth warned:

“Look out!”

Old Misery amazed him by making for the house and entering. Gilbert and the men waited for the explosion, but nothing happened.

Gilbert heard Bommer tell Somes: “Storm passed round us.” The young man decided this remark meant that some expected climax had failed to materialize. Inside the cabin Martin was saying to Old Misery—and taking care to keep his voice subdued:

“You two had better ride for it as soon as your horses come. It's for you to choose, but I really think it's better you go as soon as possible.”

“Meaning you can't keep the devil inside you chained up much longer,” said the mountain man bluntly. “I 'gree with you. We'll light out when the hosses come. But if I was here alone I'd be keen to stick along.”

“Others have felt the same way. They're still staying here and will stay here after we're through with this camp.”

“Planted out in that little opening,” mused Old Misery. “It's a handy place for burying. I come nigh laffing when you said some of the Donner party was buried there.”

“There's plenty of room for more graves,” quietly added Martin. “You can ride very soon. I'll tell the cook to pack up some supplies.”

He left the house, and Old Misery followed as far as the doorway and sat down. Martin spoke to the cook who hurried into the house and began making up a pack of supplies. Gilbert stole up to the door and sat on the threshold beside his protector.

Old Misery told him:

“My medicine says there's going to be a most 'tarnal fuss. For the first time since coming here we hold the best cards. We've got our weepins back. And if anything's going to bu'st loose.I want it to come now while we've got the house empty and the gang in front of us.”

Yet he surrendered this advantage once he saw Snake Martin start for the south side of the valley. He told Gilbert:

“I'm going out on a little scout. If any one asks for me say you don't know. Won't be much of a lie at that.”

And he chuckled softly and surprised the Vermonter by stepping back into the room.

The cook staggered out with an armful of supplies, and Old Misery slipped through the rear window. The dusk was thickening, and all the band were in front of the house. Bending double, the mountain man made for the north side of the valley and found it dark night inside the timber. His unerring sense of location permitted him to penetrate the growth in a straight line to the opening; and, passing around to the west, he took up his position in the spot from which he had spied on Martin two hours before.

His ears rather than his eyes told him when the outlaw leader entered the opening. There came the sound of steel grating on stones and the softer sound of dirt being thrown aside. Old Misery wormed his way into the opening and was quite close to Martin as the latter finished his labors and with a grunt of satisfaction started for the timber. The mountain man rose and walked after him, his form bent far forward although there was no sky-line to betray his presence.

He trailed Martin to a point due north of the cabin, then waited until the man began working his way farther east. He knew why Martin had halted before making a détour around the eastern end of the valley, and he was not surprised when he advanced to the foot of a big pine and with his foot located a mound of needles.

Rapidly exploring the contents of several bags, his lips parted in a snarl as his fingers came in contact with rings and pins and odd pieces of jewelry. The other bags contained gold in dust and nuggets, the booty doubtless obtained from homeward-bound parties of gold-hunters, or else stolen in some of the camps or towns over the ridge. What he had unearthed he carried for a short distance after the man ahead and cached it at the edge of the opening.

Then he tore a limb from a sapling and tossed it on the ground. Bending low, he raced at top speed for the end of the log house. Halting beneath the window, he listened. The long room was dark and seemed to be deserted. From the front came the idle talk of the men. With a lithe movement he slipped through the window and astounded Gilbert by suddenly sitting down beside him in the doorway.

“What—how—” began Gilbert.

“How many been in here since I was gone?” snapped the mountain man.

“No one but the cook. He came in and picked up some bundles and hurried right out. No one has spoken to me. But you—”

“Keep shet! My rock-medicine is working so hard for us that I can hear it,” whispered Old Misery.

From the group on the grass, outside, marked only by glowing pipe-bowls, a man challenged: “Who's that?”

“Martin, you fool,” whined the leader, who was returning from the south side of the valley. “Where's that big-talker?”

“Right here, old hoss-fly,” called out the mountain man.

“That's a poor way to talk to me, old man,” admonished Martin, walking toward the door.

“More warnings. Just l'arn me what's the right way and mebbe I'll be keen to try it.”

Ignoring him, Martin ordered: “Some of you make a light inside.”

Old Misery and Gilbert rose to their feet and made room for Jason to enter and throw some light stuff on the bed of coals. As the dancing flames lighted the room Martin entered and glared evilly at the Vermonter and the mountain man. He abruptly announced:

“The animals will be here pretty soon. The minute they come I want you to pack the mule and clear out.”

“That's all we're waiting for, mister,” said Old Misery.

“Hosses coming now, Chief,” bawled one of the men. “I can hear 'em.”

“There's only one hoss,” corrected Bommer.

With haste that denoted concern Martin rushed from the house to meet the newcomer.

Old Misery touched Gilbert's arm and shifted his rifle to his left hand so his right would be free. All could hear it now; the rapid thud-thud of a galloping horse.

“Riding like hell for such a dark night,” commented Somes.

“Make a blaze out there,” whined Martin.

Some one ran into the house and brought out blazing brands, and others tossed on light fuel that soon dispelled much of the darkness. Then the group waited in silence for the horseman to emerge from the black wall and enter the light. On came the horse and up to the fire before the rider could be recognized.

The man threw himself from the saddle and cried:

“It's me—Rockmore! Had to ride for my life till I topped the ridge"

Old Misery whispered to Gilbert:

“Keep awake and behind me. It's the cuss that got away from the men in Nevada City.”

Martin advanced a few steps toward the newcomer and querulously demanded:

“Why ain't you with the rest of the boys? Where's the stock?”

“Had to ride for my life, Chief. Caught in Nevada City and only got loose by luck and grit. Jumped the first hoss I saw. Stock was to go through one of the southern passes. Oughter been here before this. The boys had a good start when I rode for Nevada City to see what was up. Got nabbed on s'picion.”

“Here comes the other boys now,” some one announced.

But Martin again was disappointed, as there was only one man riding into the firelight. He was leading a horse and mule. Martin loudly announced:

“Let that old loud-talker and his friend mount and ride for it. Some of you throw the grub on to the mule.”

Instead of jumping at the offer Old Misery held back, clutching Gilbert by the arm. Two of the men were expertly fastening the provisions on the mule. The horses, stolen from some California rancho, were good ones. Misery held back until the packers had finished. Rockmore was the man he had questioned in Nevada City and whose escape had given him a chance to enter the little Chinese store and discover how old Miguel had satisfied his vengeance.

“Bold face. He never see you,” cautioned Old Misery to his companion.

And, pulling his ragged hat low over his eyes, he left the doorway and swaggered toward the horses.

“Climb into the saddle and get out,” ordered Martin.

Bommer advanced a torch so the men could make sure the mule-pack was correctly adjusted, and, as the additional light revealed the mountain man, Rockmore gave an incredulous cry and demanded:

“Wait a minute! My God! I'm not mistook! That man's the friend of Peters, the gambler, in Nevada City. Peters sent the posses out after our boys. That man is the one who got me caught along of the Adams rancho killings! You won't let him live, Chief?”

With a howl of rage Martin pulled a revolver and screamed:

“Riddle both if they make a move! Here's something to be looked into!”

“There's an empty hole out in the burying-ground that your men will like to look into,” Old Misery quickly broke in. “That hole once held the loot you hid there afore Bernie, the Frenchman, died of poison. Until you dug that stuff up and hid it again this evening you was the only man alive who knew where it was. You men understand this: Your leader planned to ride away with the gold, to ride alone and to ride to-night. I saw him dig it up and bury it in a new place.”

Martin threw down his heavy gun, and a streak of fire and a loud explosion interrupted the rest of the disclosure; and only the intervention of Jose's arm saved the mountain man from catching the lead.

The group of men were now in an uproar.

Martin was screaming: “Who did that?”

Bommer was shouting: “Old man talks straight. The little devil is robbing us, boys!”

Gilbert endeavored to drag Old Misery to the horses, but with his wild war-whoop the mountain man rushed toward Martin. The latter, entangled in a struggling group of men, broke loose, leaped forward, knife in hand, to meet Misery. Gilbert suddenly found himself endeavoring to dodge a fierce attack on the part of the grinning Jason. He warded off several knife blows with the barrel of his rifle and tried to use it as a club, but did not think to shoot. José slipped in and dexterously stabbed Jason through the heart.

Old Misery and Martin were engaged in a knife fight, the former stamping his heels and sounding the war cries of various tribes he had lived with. Martin's wailing voice kept up a stream of horrible threats as they circled about, each endeavoring to get the fire at his back and the light on his antagonist.

Bommer rushed to aid the mountain man but was set upon by Rockmore and the man called Ike.

“Damn you! You will have it!” he shouted.

And the double detonation of his heavy gun cleared his path. Only now his purpose was interrupted by the desertion of his friend.

“This way, Somes!” he cried, making after his swift-footed mate. “Curse you! Come back here!”

But Somes, with the primal instinct to destroy the thing he hated, only thought of reaching the wounded Everick and slaying him. No amount of buried treasure could come between him and that satisfaction. The figure on the blanket, possessed of a hand-gun in some way, shot Somes off his feet. Bommer took one shot, and Everick writhed and lay still.

With lightning rapidity Martin was forcing the knife play, Old Misery giving ground and falling back toward the horses. The mountain man taunted:

“Watched you bury the stuff. Dug it up. You can't ever find it.”

Their blades slithered, and with a scream of triumph Martin took advantage of what he believed to be an opening, only to meet death on the haft of the veteran's knife.

Gilbert found himself seized by the collar and began fighting desperately. Old Misery snarled:

“Come along! Ain't you had 'nough?”

Bommer ceased exchanging shots with the man who had brought up the horses and mule, and who now was crouching at the end of the cabin, and ran up as Misery and Gilbert swung into the saddle.

“Stop, or I'll kill!” he yelled.

Old Misery's moccasin caught him under the chin and toppled him over. Then the mountain man was galloping for the growth, a hand on Gilbert's bridle, and when he halted their flight they had passed through the timber and were several miles from the cabin.

Slipping to the ground, he remarked:

“That was a fuss worth while. Too dark for a man to do his best. Snake Martin's one of the niftiest knife-fighters I ever fit with. Now we can sleep in peace. In the morning I'll scout back and git grub and certain things I cached.”

CHAPTER XII

AS PROCLAIMED BY TUNKAN

THEY traveled many days; also they loitered and camped and hunted. There were forced marches over dreary deserts and barren mud-plains. On the eastern slopes of the Humboldt they tarried, and Gilbert's interest in life faintly revived at sight of numerous springs cascading down the rocks.

The tumbling ribbons of silver reminded him of Nature's prodigal waste of water among the New England mountains in early summer. They made many side excursions to nameless places, and they halted and did nothing for days in pleasant spots. At first Gilbert had been watchful for Indians, but in time became indifferent to them as a menace.

From the first day out of the outlaws' valley Old Misery had commenced his tutelage, only his companion did not realize it. Liberally supplied with ammunition, the mountain man contrived for his pupil to shoot much of the meat they ate, and initiated him into the various ruses of the hunter. To educate a greenhorn somewhere near to a mountain man's standards is a hard task. Only a great liking for the Vermonter held Misery to the work.

Old Misery might have been somewhat discouraged had he known how hungry his friend was for civilization, and how eagerly he looked ahead to visiting Salt Lake City. Very possibly the mountain man came to suspect this yearning for wooden houses and food on tables. For although they followed the immigrant road around the north end of Great Salt Lake and down the eastern side almost to the Mormon metropolis Misery shifted their course on a cloudy day and traveled east through Ogden Hole. He had hoped to deceive his friend until the city of the Saints was out of reach, and yet he was disappointed.

The fact was Gilbert did not possess the instinct of location. Without the sun to guide him he could not orient himself. On all other points of woods, mountain and plain craft Misery was confident the young man would grow to high standards of excellence. On the most vital of all points he showed but little progress.

Often the mountain man encouraged himself by secretly vowing:

“He'll come to it. I'll make him. Slow myself at first.”

He knew the last was false. There had never been a time he could remember when, placed anywhere, he could not instinctively name the points of the compass. Having always possessed this instinct it was hard to be patient with one who lacked it. But he liked Gilbert. Few of his own generation were alive. He had long since passed the time when a man collects new friends. It had been an amazingly pleasing experience to have the boy “take care” of him in Grass Valley. In all his winter counts that incident would remain most prominent.

Tom Tobin would have taken care of him in a fight against hopeless odds, and cheerfully have died in front of him. But Tom would do it as Misery would do it, with a mouthful of harmless oaths and a manner brusk almost to brutality. Tobin showed his liking by damning. So did Old Misery. The boy had come to the bunk when he believed Misery was asleep and had rested a hand on his forehead. Old Misery almost felt ashamed as he recalled and thrilled over such intimate solicitude.

One night while studying his medicine the notion struck him that had he had a son it would be this Gilbert. He nourished the fancy, a bit ashamed, as if it were a weakness, yet encouraged the idea. A mountain man wasted no time in placing a hand on a “pard's" head unless it was placed there violently. The idea wasn't permissible except one conceive of a son doing it. Then it became all right. It logically followed that Gilbert should have been his son (young enough to be his grandson), and the old man created a little make-believe world in his mind wherein he had raised a boy to look after him.

Up and around the Red Chimney Fork of the Weber they traveled, and only as time passed did the Vermonter come to suspect they were not making for the city by the great lake. He expressed his regret.

The mountain man told him:

“I'd like mortal well to obleege you, but there's reasons why I'd better not go visiting the Elders for a while. Once some of their Destroying Angels jumped me, thinking I was another man. Afore the mistake was found out I'd counted five coups. We're well east of Salt Lake now.”

“Then I'm mighty glad we didn't go there,” warmly declared Gilbert, his disappointment vanishing. “Don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you.”

“Keep shet and don't talk heyoka,” growled Old Misery, feeling more highly pleased than possible for him to express.

For the sake of convenience, reenforced by a feeling of affection, Gilbert began to address Misery as “Dad.” The old mountain man fairly squirmed with delight, but was unusually brusk for several days.

Gilbert was strongly stirred when they came to the head of Sulphur Creek and was told by his companion:

“We're at the rim of the basin. Bimeby we'll strike east-flowing rivers.”

“I'd like to see one of those rivers,” muttered Gilbert, his eyes homesick.

Old Misery studied him furtively. Then he tried to change his line of thought by profanely declaring:

“Damn my moccasins! But you'll make a mountain man yet. You're a good shot. A mighty good shot. Young eyes. You're better at squaw work than I be. You ride well. Just two things for you to l'arn; fighting Injuns and knowing where you be when the sun don't shine. Just a bit more spirit; just a bit more liking for it, and them two things will come.

“Just wait till we strike Jim Bridger's trading-post on the Black Fork of the Green. He'll put a love for mountains and Injun-fighting into your blood! 'Nother forty miles will fetch us there. No one can listen to Bridger and not turn mountain man on the spot.”

Gilbert smiled rather grimly and reminded him:

“Nothing else for me to do, is there, Dad? I can't go home, you know. And I can't wander around alone. I'd go in a circle. It's mighty kind of you to bother with me. I feel as if I were holding you back.”

“Satan and sin!” roared Old Misery, fairly bristling with delight. “Any one would think I was tending the whisky-trade in one of the old rendezvous. Holding me back? From what? I don't have to be on time for nothing— But you'll like Bridger. You'll like his place. You'll prob'ly see Shoshoni, Utahs and Uintahs Injuns there.”

One more camp and they came to the fort. It was built of pickets, with sleeping-quarters and offices in the center, the entrance being through a strong gate. On the north side was a large and enclosed yard where the stock was corralled for protection against the Indians and wild animals.

To Old Misery's great disappointment Bridger was away on the Fort Hall road and would not be back for several weeks. Gilbert learned that the fort occupied the neutral ground between the Shoshoni and Crows on the north, the Dakotas on the east, the Cheyennes on the southeast and the Utahs on the south. Here, also, the immigrant road from the East divided, one fork leading to Oregon by the way of Fort Hall on the Snake, the other extending for a hundred and twenty-five miles to Salt Lake City.

“We'll rest for a day or so,” Old Misery told Gilbert.

The latter was satisfied. It was an excellent place for a camp. The Vermonter was contrasting the sandy wastes with the thick grass, the absence of all timber with the graceful groves of cottonwoods, willows and hawthorns. A mile and a half above the fort the fork divided into four streams, clear and sweet, and reunited two miles below.

This combination of water and beautiful islands, with the Bear River Mountains for a background, was most pleasing. Gilbert found but one flaw—the several camps of Indians around the fort. It made him feel uneasy to observe how carelessly Old Misery entered the skin lodges to talk with former enemies and friends. Sometimes the mountain man spoke the red man's language, and sometimes he depended upon the sign-language.

“I don't like it, Dad,” remonstrated Gilbert. “They'll be doing you mischief.”

“Like hell they will!” roared Old Misery, immensely pleased but anxious to conceal the fact. “When they can show me new tricks you'll be older'n me.”

They tarried three days, and Gilbert was willing to remain longer, but the mountain man suddenly decided he must be traveling. He had no set purpose that Gilbert could learn beyond his explanation that his feet “itched.” It was late in the afternoon that Old Misery insisted they break camp. Gilbert would have preferred an early-morning start.

They went down the fork five miles and camped in a meadow on the right bank where there was good grass. A train for Salt Lake City was passing, carrying stores to merchants. The mountain man exchanged two nuggets for a liberal supply of coffee and sugar, articles which they had long been out of and which were very scarce at the fort.

On the next day they made twenty miles, following the immigrant road to the mouth of the Muddy. When dust clouds told them immigrant trains were coming Old Misery complained and said he felt “too crowded.”

As they advanced Gilbert collected white, yellow and smoky quartz fragments which were sprinkled over the ground. The mountain man watched him closely and consulted his rock-medicine; then became gloomy of mien.

Gilbert noted his depression and asked the cause.

“I was hoping Tunkan had a medicine for you,” explained Misery. “It made me think that when I see you going after the colored stones. I'm 'fraid it ain't so. But don't you fuss; there's lots of medicines. And yours may be mighty strong without being a Tunkan one.”

Thus far the mountain man had been unable to discover whether the rocks, the Thunder Birds, the water or the sun, favored his young companion; and being in doubt meant a troubled frame of mind. Because Gilbert's sense of location seemed to be lacking Old Misery dismissed the sun. His own researches had seemed to eliminate the Stone God. Inasmuch as he was thinking in the terms of the Dakota god-seeking he was forced to believe Gilbert was under the protection of Takuskansan, or the Moving Deity; or of the Unktelii, the Water God.

“He may be so damned wakan I don't know nothing 'bout it,” mumbled the mountain man. And yet there abided the recollection of Gilbert's inability to place himself when the route was changed.

Anxious to leave the white man's road, Old Misery was ready to start before sunrise. They followed the road two miles, long enough to raise Pilot Butte. The road toward the butte was over an empty, barren plain. The country was desolate, and, to Gilbert, depressing. But Old Misery continued to be in high spirits. They covered twenty-five miles, and, after making an easy ford of a hundred and forty feet, camped on Black Fork.

The vegetation consisted of dwarf sage and greasewood and black currant bushes, with much bunch-grass and occasional thickets of willows. Gilbert simulated a gaiety of spirits he was far from feeling, and Old Misery was hilarious in their lonely surroundings.

“Where are we going?” asked Gilbert.

“Nowhere in 'tic'lar. Just looking the ground over,” replied Old Misery, his heart aching as he began to realize his youthful companion sensed but little as to their general direction. “We may go as far as Fort Laramie. Mebbe not. Bimeby we'll swing back over the Oregon road and turn off north into the Beaver Head country. I'm kinda cur'ous to see if things has changed since I was up there last.”

When they awoke next morning it was to find the sky overcast and to feel a chill wind. To add to their discomfort some thirty horsemen charged down on the camp as they were preparing breakfast.

Gilbert yelled, “Indians!” seized his rifle, rolled into a shallow depression and drew a bead on the foremost rider.

Old Misery threw his blankets over the young man's head and warned: “Don't shoot!”

Gilbert got rid of the blanket and beheld Indians spreading to encircle them. Old Misery was walking toward the horsemen, one hand raised. The riders on the ends of the half-circle galloped in, closed the gap and the mountain man was surrounded. Gilbert remembered all he had heard about Indian torture and decided to die fighting. Then the group opened, and his friend was returning, accompanied by the red band. The mountain man shouted:

“Don't feel skittish. They're good folks.”

As he drew nearer he explained:

“Shoshoni. Friends of mine. Carrying a pipe against some Utahs. Thought our smoke was made by their enemies.”

But Gilbert did feel “skittish.” The Shoshoni looked very savage in their paint. Some were armed with old rifles, some had sword-blades fastened to long poles for lances. Every man carried a bow and a quiver of war arrows; and around the neck of each hung a small round shield.

Old Misery made them a feast of coffee and sugar, luxuries they were inordinately fond of. In return they presented to the white men a buffalo-tongue and two marrow-bones. After making sure they could have no more coffee and sugar the warriors rode south in search of the Utahs. By the time the marrow-bones were roasted and eaten a drizzling rain set in. Gilbert would have preferred erecting a shelter and waiting for clear skies, but to the mountain man all weather was welcome.

They traveled to Green River, striking it a mile above Bitter Creek, and descended a thirty-foot bank to splash eight hundred feet to the opposite bank. The gray sky, the pelting rain and the sullen river impressed Gilbert as being dreary and dangerous. However, at no spot of the crossing did the water more than touch their stirrups. The mile-wide bottom was dotted with willows and heavily grassed. Old Misery hurried through this area. The rain ceased, a thick fog taking its place. Gilbert was soaked. Buffalo-berry bushes, fifteen feet in height, stretched out branches through the mist to scratch his face. He tried walking and stepped in holes. At last he urged his companion to halt.

“Just a trifle more travel,” cheerily replied the mountain man. “Three Injuns been follering us ever since we broke camp. Some of my Shoshoni friends. They hanker to git our guns and horses. Good people and all right, but they can't help stealing hosses 'n' guns any more'n white can help driving Chinamen 'n' greasers from a rich placer-claim, or Sailor Ben can help drinking whisky.”

He took the lead as they entered the Bitter Creek Valley and warned Gilbert to cease talking. After a few miles he was forced to call a halt as their course was cut by numerous deep gullies. They were not disturbed that night, and the morning was cloudless. There were no signs of Indians. Gilbert believed he had never gazed on a more desolate scene, except in the Great Basin, than he beheld under the first light. The wash from the sand stone cliffs was so continuous as to prohibit vegetation. Not even a blade of grass was to be seen.

“Ain't this a bully place!” enthusiastically cried Old Misery. “Lawd! But I'm glad to be back here once more.”

“Mighty lonesome, Dad,” sighed Gilbert.

But Misery warmly defended the valley, saying it had little snow in winter and in the old days had been a favorite rendezvous for trappers. As they cooked and ate the buffalo-tongue the mountain man reveled in reminiscences, speaking of times before the invention of silk hats spoiled the beaver-trade. He reviewed the old-time mountain men from Ashley down, and concluded his talk by proudly declaring:

“And you're to be one of the same tribe. And a mighty good one.”

“If I'm not it won't be because I didn't have a good teacher,” agreed Gilbert.

Two more camps found them following up the east, or left, fork of Bitter Creek. Antelope were not numerous. Old Misery shot a buck and Gilbert easily bagged a half-dozen fat quail. They came upon the track of a big bear, and the mountain man's eyes lighted with love of the chase. Then he surprised his companion by foregoing the pleasure.

“No chance to overtake him?” asked Gilbert as they left the trail.

“He's close by. Git him all right,” muttered Misery. “But the notion hit me that mebbe he's a friend of Bill Williams. Hope they don't forgit that Bill likes his chaw of terbacker.”

Gilbert's physical improvement delighted Misery. During the seventy miles up this one valley he seemed to have doubled in strength and in ability to make a camp, read signs, and to find and shoot game. His face was deeply tanned, and, no longer daily living in fear of mob violence, his eyes were keenly objective. There remained but one defect in him, and Misery repeatedly told himself this would be speedily overcome: Without the sun or stars to guide him he had no sense of direction.

They left the valley and rode six miles to a small branch of the Muddy. Gilbert was disgusted to find the water strong of alkali. The animals drank it with reluctance. Grass had been scarce, and the horses and mule had suffered. It was Misery's plan to camp and recruit the strength of their animals, but they barely had reached the creek before buffalo were sighted and the mountain man gave chase. After an hour he returned in disgust, his worn-out horse being unable to carry him alongside the shaggy creatures.

That night Gilbert received the scare of his life when an old bull stumbled upon the camp and stampeded the horses and mule. Aroused from a dreamless sleep by the visitor's blundering about, Gilbert heard his companion shouting, heard the crack of his rifle and took it for granted the Indians had them.

After the bull had departed they built a fire and looked for damage. None of their weapons had been injured, and the property loss was insignificant aside from the disappearance of the horses. Old Misery was much disturbed but presented a cheery face to his young friend as they sat by the blaze and reviewed the mishap.

“I'll fetch 'em back in no time once light comes,” optimistically declared the mountain man. He started his search before sunrise and before Gilbert was awake found the three strays grazing within two miles of the camp.

Traveling less than four miles after breakfast, they passed between high cliffs of red and green clay and came out on a vast prairie, which, Misery informed his companion, stretched from the Snake to the Platte. Then followed days of aimless wandering. At night Misery would ask his friend to make a map of where they had been, but only when the sky was clear and their course had followed a general direction was the result any more than guess-work.

As a rule the young man retained only fragments of recollection of narrow gulches, beaver-dams, silhouettes of interminable mountain ranges, sage, salt-grass, ridges covered with flat black gravel, ridges bedecked with yellow and white quartz, large bear tracks, petrification of shells mysteriously scattered over high places, and grotesque sandstone buttes. But all this data was scrambled together in his mind, and the trivial, if curious, was more keenly retained in memory than some prominent landmark.

“You ain't yet come to the p'int where you're able to carry a picter in your mind of where you've been,” mused the mountain man one night.

“Nowhere near that point. It's all like a jumble of dreams. I'm hopeless.”

“Not by a damn sight!” energetically denied Misery. “You're doing fine. Don't 'spect you to pick up in a season what I've been gitting together for fifty years. Now them last big shells you see. What did the butte east of that ridge make you think off"

Gilbert's face was blank.

“I remember the shells well. I remember there were three overlapping each other like a big fan. But I don't remember any butte.”

“Course you wouldn't,” heartily cried Misery. “Buttes everywhere, every day. Shells is more scurce.”

Yet when he went to look after the horses his face was very grave. He was keenly disappointed. But his liking for the young man was too genuine to permit him to abandon the task.

With a shrug of his shoulders he grimly told himself:

“But I'll do it. I could make a mountain man out of Bill Williams. I'll make one out of the younker, or bu'st. He's gitting along fine 'cept he never knows where he's going or where he's been. Even a bear knows that much. But what of it? Ain't I going to keep at his side? Ain't I got eyes 'nough for two?”

He returned to the camp to find Gilbert about to set out to shoot game. He restrained him by explaining:

“We're now on the war-grounds of a half a dozen hostile tribes. So we won't fire any guns to-day. It's only 'bout two miles from here that Henry Frappe, Jim Bridger's old partner, was wiped out. Five hundred Dakotas, Cheyennes and 'Rapahoes charged his camp, drove off his cattle, killed a white man, two women and a Injun; then scattered and chased his hunters and bagged several of 'em.

“Jim was building his station on Green River and sent word for Frappe to quit this country. But Frappe didn't move quick 'nough and was jumped by another big band. He was killed with eight of his people, but forty Injuns was wiped out.”

“Are the Indians as quick to attack now as they were then?” inquired Gilbert, endeavoring to conceal his anxiety.

“More so. Back in 'forty-one the first immigrant train went up the Platte to Oregon. Till then only some of us trappers had crossed the northern plains. But from 'forty-one on the Injuns began to understand there was lots of white folks in the world, and their eyes bunged out when they see the whites streaming across their hunting-grounds. Wood was cut down and wasted. River bottoms grazed bare by the stock. Buf'ler shot and left to rot on the ground, or scared out the country. Why, in 'thirty-five the Oglala hunted at the forks of the Platte. In 'forty-five they had to travel to the Laramie Plains to hunt. Now they have to go farther where the Shoshoni is ready to carry a fight to 'em.”

“Then why do we come here? Just to get killed?” demanded Gilbert.

“Oh, we'll git through with our ha'r on, if we keep our eyes open. One of my Shoshoni friends back along that was trying to steal our hosses told me that the Pawnees just had a big fight with the Cheyennes, Kiowys 'n' Comanches, and killed some of their men. Now them three tribes is trying to git the Sioux to help 'em carry a pipe against the Pawnees. So you see it makes it mighty nice for us as we can slip through the pass and take a peep at Fort Laramie while them four tribes are busy smoking war-terbacker.

“You can't be a mountain man till you're a plains man. That's why I'm fetching you out here. It's your eddication. You're going to like it, too. No one to boss you round. No posse to come after you. You can just look up to the old mountains every day and tell every one to go to hell!”

Gilbert was not entirely reassured. On the next day they rode through a beautiful pass, and the mountain man reined in and announced they were standing on the height of land that separates the waters of the Atlantic from those of the Pacific. Gilbert's first feeling was of joy. Then he remembered the red danger. Next he was recalling his sentence to exile, and a great misery filled his heart. Before him extended the gently undulating country sloping to the east, with the Medicine Bow Mountains in the background. Old Misery pointed to the range and said the Platte flowed along its base.

“Now don't it make you feel sorter proud to know you've stood where the big rivers git their start?” anxiously asked Old Misery.

“At first. But I can't help remembering that I can never follow them east,” sadly replied Gilbert.

“Satan and sin! A mountain man don't want to foller 'em east. Fort Laramie is far 'nough east for us to foller any river,” impatiently cried the mountain man. Then more gently: “I’m bound to do it, younker. I'm going to make a prime mountain man out of you. You're going to travel with me and see I ain't buried under ground when I’m wiped out. You feel a little out of sorts now, but you'll git over it. Just think of coming all this way from Californy! Don't it make you feel like you'd done something, counted a big coup, and oughter be named to wear the crow in your belt? Don't it make you feel like you owned the world?”

“It’s fine to think about,” agreed Gilbert, essaying to present a better face. “But of course I couldn't have made three camps if it hadn't been for you.”

“What of it? Everybody has to be l'arned. I had to be. Now here we be, two mountain men. Every sky-line is free to us. Let folks stew in towns back East and on the coast. Let 'em rob 'n' cheat 'n' die. We don't have any more truck with such doings than a eagle does. We're free to come and go. No one can tell us where and when to go. We take what we want. We live in a country the Almighty made. Made for us to live in and not for men to shovel into cricks and cover with wooden lodges. We don't need money.”

There was something in this speech that impressed Gilbert as portraying a magnificent freedom. If only a man could forget his kin, could forget ambition as measured by the town, forget the dark-haired Walker girl back home! Then that man would be without a care or a responsibility. Anyway, sentence had been passed on him.

“I'll make a hard try for it,” he stoutly declared. “The East is closed to me. I'm a fool to make myself miserable when it can't be helped.”

“Wakan talk! Wakantanka! Hi yo! A man comes to take a new name! All he now sees belongs to him!”

And in his joy at the young man's decision Old Misery slipped from his horse and executed a little dance of triumph.

Remounting, he sedately announced:

“Now we'll range down to Fort Laramie and take a squint at the immigrant trains making for South Pass, swapping their eastern prisons of wood for western prisons of wood. Mebbe we'll guide a train through Injun country far as Fort Hall. Sometimes I feel I oughter do that for the women 'n' children. Mebbe we'll turn back to the Park Mountains and see where the Colorado rises. Or we can cut up into the Flat Head country and help the Nez Percés carry a pipe over the mountains against the Blackfeet. I owe the Blackfeet a few digs. Lawd! Wish I could live a million years and not have anything changed. Then I'd have time to hunt every crick 'n' buf'ler waller, every peak 'n' canon.”

After this talk, and largely because he was convinced of the futility of fighting against the inexorable, Gilbert did his best to pick up the ways of his companion. While they were camping in a wonderful bottom on the left bank of the north fork of the Platte he announced his desire to shoot buffalo from the saddle. Heretofore he had shot them only by stalking. He felt uplifted by the gigantic cottonwoods, towering sixty feet above their camp. He was determined to complete his education as rapidly as possible.

Old Misery secretly applauded his ambition but had misgivings. Gilbert's horse was not trained to run buffalo; nor had the young man any experience in shooting while at full gallop. But the mountain man would not discourage him. He simply advised:

“Take my hand-gun and leave your rifle. If your hoss will carry you close the hand-gun will do the business and won't need only one hand. Bimeby you can try shooting the rifle when going at a dead run.”

Taking the heavy revolver, he rode out to a small herd of buffalo. He drew very close before the huge animals displayed any alarm. They started off at a ponderous gallop, moving slowly at first, and he had no difficulty in maneuvering his mount alongside a cow. He held the revolver, cocked, and brought it down to fire just as his horse stumbled and all but fell. His gun-hand instinctively moved in and the weapon discharged under the unintentional pressure of the trigger finger; and the horse, minus the tip of an ear, reared violently and threw him to the ground.

With the breath dashed from his lungs he remained on his back until Old Misery flogged his horse forward and in a flying leap gained his side.

“Hurt bad, younker? Bullet hit you? Good lord! To think I let you try it!”

“All right!” gasped Gilbert. “Lost my breath. I'm all right. And what a fool!”

“You done fine!” cried the mountain man. “Never see a man make a better start. But what'n hell made that hoss prance so! Never showed such life afore!”

Gilbert crawled to his feet. Old Misery remounted and caught the runaway. Now assured his companion was not injured, he struggled mightily to keep a sober face as he brought the horse back and rubbed some bear grease on the poor brute's mutilated ear.

“Did I do that?” cried Gilbert.

“If you did it's some of the neatest, closest shooting I ever see,” declared the mountain man.

Now they began to find old Indian stockades where war-parties had camped. They left the Platte to travel around an isolated mountain on the north of Medicine Bow Butte. Old Misery pointed to the narrow opening between the two and explained that while Frémont had passed through the gorge in 1842 they would save time by avoiding it, so rough was the traveling.

He had scarcely finished this bit of information before he was standing in his stirrups and shading his eyes as he stared at the rough defile. Gilbert's gaze, quickened by experience, discovered it—a dot. It was emerging from the pass, and was followed by another and another, until a score had strung into view. A short distance on their right was a clean, open grove of pine, marking the course of a branch of Rattlesnake Creek.

“Are they Indians?” whispered Gilbert.

“Yep. Fetching us a fight,” quietly replied the mountain man. “Mebbe they'll think the risk is too much for what little they can git.”

He shifted his gaze to the pines.

“We'll ride in there and stand 'em off.”

“You've said we should keep in the open,” reminded Gilbert.

“That's what we'd do now if I wan't seeing an old In jun fort in there. It's close to water. Take your time. No hurry.”

But Gilbert's horse was the first to enter the pines.

Instead of one fort they found three, and the burned remains of a dozen more. All were built in the form of the ordinary skin lodge and, being constructed of logs stood on end, were bullet-proof. Old Misery dismounted and pulled back enough logs to permit Gilbert to lead the horses and mule inside. The mountain man closed the opening except for a hole large enough for him to crawl through. This he blocked with their saddles and the pack from the mule.

The horses were told to lie down and had been taught to obey promptly. It was necessary to throw the mule, however. The animals were next tied, to prevent their getting to their feet and plunging madly about when frightened, or if wounded.

The interior of the lodge measured some eighteen feet in diameter and received its light through various loop holes five feet from the ground, and through an opening at the apex.

“Couldn't ask for a better spot!” endorsed the mountain man as he pushed a log aside at the back and picked up a canvas bucket and the camp-kettle.

“Must you go out?” asked Gilbert.

“Crick's close by. Nothing like a drink of water when you're choking on powder smoke.”

He crawled outside and slipped down the bank to the stream and returned with bucket and kettle filled to the brim.

Gilbert was immensely relieved when he saw the kettle slowly advancing through the opening.

“I was afraid they'd come while you were gone,” he whispered.

“Lots of time. It'll be quite a lot of minutes afore they come up. I'm going out again. Be right back.”

This time he went to the next, or middle lodge. He found it contained the remains of a warrior resting on a low platform of logs. The man had been dead for years. The usual burial miscellany of property was piled about the bier. For weapons there was a Hudson's Bay Company trade-musket, an excellent bow and a quiver of arrows, a long lance with a point of obsidian and a trade knife in a fringed sheath. Among the utensils were two large copper kettles.

Old Misery placed these and the bow and quiver outside the lodge and ran to examine the third “fort.” The logs of this showed arrow and bullet marks, and the lower side was burned through. Weather and flames had so weakened it that the mountain man sent it crashing to the ground.

Then Gilbert was racing toward him, rifle in one hand and a camp-ax in the other, his eyes round and wild. On beholding his friend erect the young man explained:

“Thought they'd got you!”

“And come out to git caught,” mildly rebuked Old Misery, but secretly pleased.

“Well, Dad, I wouldn't last long if left alone,” reminded Gilbert. “Let's get back. Whose kettles?”

“Ours. Take the bow 'n' arrers inside. We'll git some more water.”

And for the second time he descended the bank to the stream. When he returned with the extra supply of water he remarked:

“We're fixed mighty fine here. Plenty of grub, and close to water, and plenty of lead 'n' powder. And I'm glad that end lodge is down. They'd be sure to take cover there.”

“Better for us if the nearest one was down,” said Gilert.

“That's a burial lodge. They'll keep out of that even if they ain't Sioux. Dead man in there was a Sioux. He'd carried the pipe more'n once as his war-bonnet tells us.”

“How do you know he was a Sioux?”

“Wrapped in a green blanket. That's their funeral color. Never saw a live Sioux wearing one. Cheyennes 'n' 'Rapahoes don't seem to have any 'tic'lar color. Tom Tobin would like this.”

While talking he was passing from loophole to loophole and peering out. There sounded a smart tap close to one aperture, and Misery announced:

“They're here. Just shot a arrer into the logs.”

Gilbert was immensely excited but to his surprise did not feel afraid.

“I see nothing.”

“Keep down! Use the holes close to the ground. Timber's full of reds. They saw us make for cover, and they rode into the growth above here.”

All doubt as to the Indians' presence was removed as a crash of guns and chorus of hideous yelling spoiled the quiet of the grove.

The mountain man was quick to encourage:

“Don't mind their howling. Hooting never hurt any one. Reckon I'll hoot back.”

And, lifting his head, he sounded the war-whoop of the Pillager Band of Chippewas, the ancient enemy of the Dakota tribes. The yelling was renewed by the besiegers. Old Misery grinned and explained:

“Knew that would make 'em mad. Lawd! But they do hate a Chippewa.”

When the timber became quiet again Misery said:

“Reckon I'll give 'em some more.”

And he shouted defiance in the Oglala Dakota tongue, and repeated it in the Cheyenne, Arapahoe, Crow and Pawnee. The last two raised the unseen warriors to a pitch of frenzy.

Chuckling gleefully, the mountain man hoarsely whispered:

“They don't know what to think. They see only the two of us. But they don't know but what some of their own color is in here.”

That he had not deceived the besiegers was now evidenced by a deep voice from behind the burial lodge demanding:

“Who speaks to the Oglala Tetons with the tongues of many tribes, but always in the voice of a white man?”

Old Misery glanced out on four sides of the lodge to make sure no braves were creeping close under cover of the dialogue, and then answered:

“A man who forgets he was born white. A man who has a rock-medicine sent him by Tunkan. He is a very brave man and has counted many coups.”

“Come out where we can talk with you and smoke.”

“Stand out where I can see you.”

“Makhpia-sha sends his voice. It is enough. Come out here, white man.”

“The white man is an old man. He hunted at the Forks of the Platte where Red Cloud was born, long before Red Cloud was born. Life is a pair of old moccasins to him. He has lived too long. He has seen too many white men come out here and spoil the hunting and trapping. Bring him a good fight, Makhpia-sha, so he can die happy and take some Oglala Tetons to hunt with him to the Land of Many Lodges,” was Misery's answer.

And as he finished his defiance he again made a round of the loopholes. The Oglala leader, crouching behind the burial lodge, began:

“There is another white man with you. Is he tired of life because his people have spoiled the hunting-ground of the Dakota?”

Old Misery suddenly thrust his revolver through a loop-hole and fired, breaking the arm of an Indian who was about to tree himself close to the logs. The wounded brave remained behind the tree, giving no sign of being hurt. Leaping across the lodge, the mountain man sounded his war-cry and taunted:

“Red Cloud talked to keep the old man from using his eyes. Red Cloud forgot the medicine sent by Tunkan keeps watch for the old man.”

And, shifting his position, he fired two shots at random from the front of the lodge.

Gilbert, who had been keeping watch on the side where the wounded warrior was hiding, despairingly confessed:

“I’m useless. I can see nothing. Every time you look you see them.”

“Seen just one man,” chuckled Old Misery. “But they've surrounded us, and they think I’ve seen 'em when I shoot. Fire a couple of shots from the back side to keep ’em from sneaking up from the crick.”

He returned to the loop-hole, facing the burial lodge, ready to resume his conversation with Makhpia-sha, or Red Cloud. This Oglala man was well advanced on a career that was to make him the most powerful and astute chief of the Oglala Tetons. He came from the Snake family, one of the most influential of the tribe. His advancement was more remarkable because he had no claim to the chieftainship, that office among the Oglalas being hereditary in the family of Tasunkakokipapi—“They fear Even His Horse”—or, as the plainsmen called him, “Young Man Afraid of His Horses.”

Red Cloud was taking his time to consider Misery's repeated boast of possessing a strong rock-medicine. Gilbert fired his rifle just as the famous leader began to talk, but as if not hearing it Red Cloud called out:

“The white man lies. He has no medicine from Tunkan. The Stone Spirit does not give medicine to white men.”

“The rock-medicine is in my medicine-bag. Makhpia-sha is a brave man. Let him come to me alone and look at it.”

“It is a lie. If the white men come out they will not be hurt. If they do not come out my men will set fire to the logs and roast them. If taken alive they shall be skinned alive.”

Gilbert fired a second shot; then shifted his position and wasted another.

Old Misery laughed derisively, and reminded Red Cloud:

“When this fort burns, Makhpia-sha, then the burial lodge you are hiding behind burns. That is very bad medicine for the Oglala Tetons. If Tunkan, whose rocks are painted red, is not helping me why does Red Cloud wait? Why does he not bring us a fight? How many warriors must he have behind him before he dares to charge two white men? Are there no Strong-Hearts, or Crow-Owners, or old men of the White Horse Band, with him?”

The shrill notes of a turkey-bone whistle split the silence of the timber. Instantly there was a deafening chorus of ferocious cries, the crash of guns and the thudding of arrows. The mule gave a convulsive twitch and Gilbert was hoarsely whispering:

“Mule's dead, Dad. Shot through the head.”

“Keep low and load for me!” snapped the mountain man.

And at the risk of being hit by a chance bullet through some loop-hole he ranged around the circle, pausing a second before each opening to peer out, then quickly firing. And as he worked he repeatedly sounded his war-cry and added many insults in the Teton dialect. For ten minutes this yelling and shooting continued, and when the whistle sounded and brought silence the only casualty, so far as the defenders knew, was the dead pack-animal.

The mountain man yelled to Red Cloud by name but received no reply. The silence in the grove was more trying to Gilbert's taut nerves than had been the mad howling. Old Misery, too, was accepting it as an evil omen and began spying through the loopholes in an anxious endeavor to discover what the enemy was up to.

Luck, or Tumkan, ruled that he should be kneeling by the choked front entrance and peering through a tiny aperture when a twig dropped within his range of vision from a pine ten feet from the lodge. Working rapidly with his knife between two logs at arm's length above his head, and taking great care his blade should not penetrate to the outside, he whispered for Gilbert to drop on his hand and knees before him. Stepping on the young man's bowed figure, he elevated himself sufficiently to use this new peep-hole.

Twenty feet above his head a naked warrior was working his way out on a limb. He carried a big coil of rope, and obviously his purpose was to lasso the projecting ends of the logs at the apex of the lodge. Did he accomplish this his hidden companions could quickly pull the timbers loose and expose the white men to capture or quick death.

Old Misery pulled his revolver and warned: “Steady. I'm going to shoot.”

The Indian was feeding the coil to the ground, and as it tautened the mountain man knew the invisible foe was ready to pull the logs apart once the noose was in place. Now that his companions had hands on the rope the man in the tree began gathering up sufficient slack for the cast, and while doing this he dropped the noose over his head.

As he was in the act of lifting his arm to remove the noose the heavy bullet caught him in the arm-pit; and before the Oglala men knew what had happened, and while they were holding tightly to the rope, the man fell and was brought up with a jerk that broke his neck, his moccasins within six inches of the ground. But he was dead before he left the limb as the upward course of the bullet plowed through his throat. So unexpected was the dénouement of this ruse that those holding the rope kept the dead man suspended for nearly a minute, his naked form whirling rapidly, a horribly grotesque teetotum.

Back to the loop-hole facing the burial lodge leaped the mountain man and loudly derided:

“How many winters since the Oglala Tetons hung their dead up by the neck? Has Makhpia-sha a new medicine that tells him to do it?”

Then he was crouching behind the saddles and pack at the entrance. The dead man was on the ground. The whistle sounded, and there came a hail of lead and a flight of arrows, and under cover of this assault a brave reached from behind the tree, seized the dead man's foot and commenced dragging him away. He desisted and retired with a shattered wrist.

Old Misery again hurled defiances and abuse.

Gilbert screamed: “Look out!”

Misery wheeled just as the young man kicked a gun barrel thrust through a loophole on the creek side of the lodge. The gun discharged, the bullet harmlessly plowing into the logs above the prostrate horses. As the man yanked the gun back Gilbert fired his rifle through the opening. He was too excited to hear the sound of a heavy body falling. But Old Misery heard it, and he leaped across the enclosure, pushed the young man aside and was in time to see the dead brave being dragged to cover.

“Satan and sin! You counted a coup!” roared the mountain man. “You'll wear a war-bonnet yet! Make you a prime mountain man? Why, already you're almost a second Jim Bridger! Mebbe sometime you'll be almost as good a man as I be. Quick work! Good work! Some new medicine is working for you! He! Hi! Hi! Hi!”

And he proceeded to arouse the savages outside to a maniacal pitch of fury by singing a war-song of the Mississippi Band of the Chippewa.

“'I make him bite the dust, the Teton Sioux, when I see him,'” he repeated in English for Gilbert's benefit.

He howled this arrogantly over and over, but as he sang he did not neglect the loop-holes and kept moving around the enclosure.

Although at first stunned by his unexpected victory, Gilbert suddenly discovered his heart was filled with strength and courage. Knowing no Indian songs, he burst into a violent denunciation in English, his fresh, strong voice carrying far. Old Misery was overjoyed by this metamorphosis in the young man. The flushed face, the sparkling eyes, the confident volume of the ringing voice erased all doubt in the mountain man's mind; the Vermonter had found himself. Under some mountain name his fame would travel far. When Gilbert paused to renew his breath Misery was impelled to shuffle around in a Chippewa war-dance, punctuating his grotesquery with an exclamatory:

“How! How!”

The shrill whistle sounded again. The mountain man believed the last climax was upon them and jumped to a loop-hole. All remained quiet outside. He examined the timber from all sides. At last he proudly informed Gilbert:

“They're drawing back to powwow. Younker, you'll be a Crow-Owner for this day's work. Keep on and you'll figger in one of their winter counts.”

“I never supposed I would ever kill a man,” muttered Gilbert, a slight reaction setting in.

Old Misery feared weakness and harshly corrected:

“You say it wrong. You killed a wild animal that was trying to hoop your ha'r after skinning you alive. And it's a mighty big coup to make a Makhpia-sha draw back and go into council.”

“But there are so many of them! They can easily rush us and tear these logs apart.”

Old Misery grinned and agreed. “Easiest thing in the world. But they ain't done it. They've had two men killed and a couple wounded. That's bad for 'em. It's bad for Red Cloud, their leader. They planned to git us without losing a man. Now Red Cloud is madder'n an old buf'ler bull that's been driven out of the herd. But he's a Injun. He won't let his 'mad' git the best of his red mind. They'll talk it over and think up some new tricks. Mebbe they'll lose some more men, but they won't plan to. They won't rush us in daylight. Red Cloud knows he mustn't lose another man. Now let's drink some water.”

“If they don't get us to-day they will to-night.”

“They ain't going to git us alive any time,” cheerfully assured Old Misery. “If they come in the dark it'll be along toward sun-up. We may git a chance to sneak away afore then. May have to leave the hosses. You start moving round and peeking out. Don't stop more'n a second at any hole. I must talk with my medicine.”

Gilbert began spying on the outside world and saw nothing but two squirrels scampering madly down one tree to cross and ascend another. Old Misery seated himself with his back to the logs, opened his buckskin bag and stared earnestly at the rock. Then he held it to his ear.

“The man's gone you shot out of the tree,” whispered Gilbert.

“The sly cusses,” absent-mindedly murmured Misery.

“What does your medicine tell you?”

In his desperation the young Vermonter was eager to try to believe a curious piece of rock possessed magic powers.

Old Misery listened intently; then frowned slightly.

“Don't git it just clear, but that's 'cause my head is slow. As I make it out we're to bu'st away from this trap. That must mean we oughter make a try after sun-down. I'll make two packs from the mule-load, What we can't carry we'll leave to pay for the dead men.”

Suspecting some new ruse, the two watched with ears and eyes, but there was no sign of life in the timber. After twenty minutes of tense waiting there came a sharp yelping, more like the cry of a dog than a human. At first it was faint and far off but rapidly increased in clearness and volume. From the edge of the timber the assembled Indians began shouting back. The red sentinels left posted around the lodge caught the contagion and from their hiding-places added high-pitched, explosive cries to the general tumult.

“What does it mean?” whispered Gilbert.

“Some one on hossback comes with a talk for Red Cloud. Knew 'bout where to find him. Shows he's one of the band,” explained Old Misery.

The newcomer had now reached the circle of Indians gathered in a war-council, and the howling ceased.

“He's giving his talk,” muttered Old Misery.

An outburst of wild howls told the white men the talk was finished. The whistle-signal pierced the grove.

The mountain man cried:

“Something big's bu'sted loose. They'll be leaving soon. They won't make more'n one rush at us. Keep your head.”

The sentinels began firing on the lodge. Inside half a minute the entire red force was discharging bullets and arrows at the logs. The whistle again commanded, and the firing ceased. Old Misery watched closely from a loop-hole beside the blocked entrance. He had a glimpse of a sentinel retreating through the trees and toward the open country on the west of the timber. He saved his bullet and told Gilbert:

“Untie the hosses and git 'em up. Something big's happened. Mebbe it's war-talk about the Pawnees. They're all leaving.”

“It's some trick,” muttered Gilbert, not daring to indulge in such an extravagant hope.

He got the horses up and was ashamed to find his limbs trembling violently.

From the edge of the timber rose the voice of the red men, singing a war-song. It gradually receded, and the mountain man knew they had taken to horse and were riding away. Gilbert insisted it was a trick to induce them to break cover.

Old Misery shook his head and reminded Gilbert:

“A man rode up, yelping like he had a big talk. They may 'a' left a few braves to take a shot at us when we show our noses, but my medicine says we won't have no more trouble from Red Cloud. Something the medicine tries to tell me I can't make out. We'll wait a bit.”

Half an hour passed and brought no new alarms. The horses shared the mule-pack between them. Gilbert was for throwing away a heavy buckskin bag, tied in the middle, that Misery had said contained lead. The mountain man insisted they might need it.

“Time enough to heave it away when we're jumped and have to ride bareback for it. We'll have to leave the saddles, of course.”

He was not quite ready to depart, however, and directed Gilbert to remain inside with his rifle ready.

“I'm going to take a two-minute scout,” he explained.

And before his young friend could remonstrate he had yanked a saddle from the opening and had squirmed out of the lodge. Inside the two minutes he was back, walking boldly and calling for Gilbert to remove two logs and drive out the horses.

“They've gone north toward the immigrant road. Have a sixty-mile ride ahead of 'em. Must 'a' had word from some of their scouts that a big train is coming. Red Cloud's got to wipe out some whites to make up for his two men killed. The skunks packed the dead men 'way with 'em. So we ain't no ha'r to show for our fight. I was going to show you how to sculp.”

“But I don't want to learn!” cried Gilbert.

Misery was disappointed.

“As a mountain man you've got to know how,” he insisted.

Then more cheerfully:

“Mebbe we'll git a chance to bag one of 'em afore we reach Fort Laramie. Trick's easy 'n' simple.”

“I pray we meet no more Indians,” said Gilbert with a shiver.

The mountain man would have resented this had he not remembered the vague message his medicine had endeavored to tell. His gaze grew somber with fear as he looked at his companion.

“Mebbe it's best that way,” he muttered.

They crossed the creek and covered twenty miles before making camp in the dark. Gilbert gladly would have attempted to walk another twenty, but Misery assured him they could not outwalk danger, but might walk into it. Their course had taken them up a dry branch of the Rattlesnake that headed in a low gap. From the gap they had followed down a hollow to a small tributary of the Medicine Bow River that headed near the northern end of the Medicine Bow Butte.

Starting before sunrise, they took a southeasterly course with the country much more pleasing than what they had left behind on the west side of the Medicine Bow Mountains. The valleys were wide and richly grassed, and were hemmed in by low, rounded hills. Antelope in graceful flight passed back and forth near them. The grass-covered hills swarmed with buffalo. They camped early in the midst of some willows. Cottonwoods and aspen were close by, and the tiny stream was lined with rosebushes.

The day's travel had been short. Gilbert was for covering many miles, but the mountain man appeared to be preoccupied. It was fear of what his medicine had tried to tell him. He tried to keep it from his thoughts but was remembering it each time he glanced at his companion.

Two hours before sunrise they ate emergency rations of dried meat and ascended a high bluff. In the north east and beyond the Laramie Plains, rose Laramie's Peak, dark and mysterious against the early morning sky. Gilbert was confused as to direction until the red glow of the hidden sun had burned a hole in the eastern sky-line. The traveling was easy as they were passing through an open, rolling country. Old Misery explained that the great abundance of game was due to the remoteness of the immigrant road. The buffalo were quite tame, the old bulls refusing to move. The antelope were more curious than timid.

Misery refused to eat antelope so long as he could have buffalo. He shot a fat cow and butchered it “mountain style,” taking only the “bass” and tongue. The former was the hump projecting from the back of the neck, and about the size of a man’s head. It was removed with the skin attached. Misery assured his companion that once the bass was boiled it would prove to be very tender and rich and most nutritious. They crossed the east fork of Frappe's Creek and camped early in the mile-wide bottom. Old Misery informed Gilbert:

“Named after Frappe when the 'Rickaras stole sixty of his horses at the mouth of the crick.”

This information made Gilbert nervous until his companion explained Frappe was robbed years before.

“Now we're clear of the Rattlesnake country we won't hurry,” added Misery. “Might run into another band of Injuns. I’d struck north to the immigrant road if Red Cloud hadn't gone that way. We'll have to dodge some hunting parties most likely. But I'm proud of you, younker. You're going to be a big mountain man.”

Had it not been for fear of roving Indians Gilbert would have enjoyed the next few days. They moved cautiously and each day traveled eight or ten miles before sunrise. One day when it rained they put in twelve hours of almost continuous walking. At each camp Old Misery would produce his medicine-rock and consult it, and each time vainly endeavored to understand what it was trying to tell him.

So far as he could understand he learned nothing to dismiss his secret fear. He told none of his thoughts to Gilbert, however. On leaving Frappe's Creek they had entered the Laramie Plains and traveled a score of miles across a beautiful rolling country to camp on the west fork of the Laramie River.

Old Misery was doubly cautious, saying:

“Probably some Injun villages down the river. But that don't mean all the reds we meet will hanker for our ha'r; not even if they're Oglalas.”

Gilbert found no consolation in his talk. Yet they met with no trouble and rounded the Black Hills Range, but directed their course outside of Cheyenne Pass—a valley rather than a gorge, and so called as it contained a Cheyenne village. They had often seen red hunters at a distance but thus far had escaped discovery. It was after they left the Chugwater and were striking direct for Fort Laramie that they ran into a small band of Cheyennes. All Indians looked alike to Gilbert, but Old Misery assured him there was no danger; and he called by name the leader of the hunters, a man of some sixty years.

The leader was pleased to meet with an old acquaintance and shook hands with both white men and told his followers they were “good men.” The young men, however, eyed the two horses and their packs hungrily. Old Misery informed them that several war-bands of strange Indians were south and west of the Black Hills. The Cheyennes at once became nervous and anxiously asked what tribes were sending out war-bands. The mountain man repeated they were strange Indians, but he was sure one band was composed of Pawnees. The Cheyennes mounted at once and galloped to the Chugwater and their village at its head.

On the next day, and before Gilbert was prepared to receive the heartening information, Old Misery was announcing:

“Afore night we'll be camping just above Laramie. You act s'prised.”

“I've been mixed up as to the direction we've traveled and as to the distance we've covered,” said Gilbert.

Misery felt misgivings, but ousted the thought and explained:

“Used to be called Fort John. Used to be used by 'Merican Trading Company to protect its trade. You still 'low you'll be a mountain man?”

And he anxiously waited to hear the answer.

“Why, Dad, what else is there for me to do?” morosely replied Gilbert. “I'll do my best. I'm afraid I never can get to know where I'm at. But I'll do my best.”

The land around Fort Laramie impressed Gilbert as being very sterile. The absence of dews and the dry atmosphere turned the occasional patches of grass brown, as if they had been burned over. Much of the surrounding country was carpeted with gravel. The fort itself, built of adobe brick and occupying a natural shelf of clay and rock, was a most welcome sight to the easterner. This largely because the Stars and Stripes were fluttering from the top of a bastion.

Old Misery led the way a short distance above the fort to a spot on Laramie Fork and announced they would camp there to be clear of the sun and the dust from passing wagon-trains. He was very quiet as he cooked the midday meal; and while he smoked his pipe he turned aside, peered into the medicine-bag and frowned as if not understanding. About mid-afternoon clouds of dust advertised the coming of a big wagon-train.

Observing how wistfully his friend was watching the sun-riddled dust, Misery remarked:

“It's coming from the Oregon country. Mighty soon we'll be going up where it started from. Big trees. Big mountains. Big lakes. Air cool and make you sleep better'n a gallon o' Missouri whisky. Lawdy! But if I could be young and be seeing that country for the first time again! Waugh!

“And how you're going to take to it! No pindling timber like what you see down here. No burned-out grass. No dry crick beds. But good water 'n' grass 'n' fire-wood everywhere. And game! You'll go plumb heyoka when you see the game and catch the fish.”

He spoke with boisterous anticipation, but his shrewd old eyes were ever watching the woe-begone face across the tiny fire.

“That'll be smash-up good fun, huh?”

“I'll be glad to be with you, Dad. You've been mighty good to me. But I almost wish we hadn't come here. I mustn't go near the fort. Some word may have reached here about me. And to see that train pulling out for the East would make me feel awfully cheap and homesick.— Well, well. It's settled and I'm a fool to be complaining. I'm mighty lucky to have some one to look, out for me.”

“I'll make a mountain man out of you yet,” growled Old Misery. “Hi! He! He! He! There. I feel a heap better. Go to the fort? You're a mountain man. You can go anywhere you damn please. Come along. Folks round here don't know nor care nothin' 'bout any stranger. Soldiers have all they can do to look out for Injuns and git the hay down eight miles from up the river. We'll look at that train. Keep looking at 'em till you laff at the notion of ever wanting to foller one to the East. Mebbe some old cusses I know is with that train, hired to come along to help stand off the Injuns. We'll catch up with a west-bound train and take life easy.”

They reached the fort ahead of the long train, and when it came in it attracted the attention of soldiers, officers, guides and groups of Indians lounging about the place. In the tops and sides of several wagons war arrows were flopping. There were fresh scars from bullets and arrow heads on the wagon bodies, and several horses were wounded.

Ahead of the foremost wagon, mounted on a rawboned horse of wicked eye, rode a man with a face of leather and with gray hair that came down on his shoulders. He gave Old Misery one look and then slipped from his crude wooden saddle, yelling like a Comanche, and playfully tried to knock the mountain man's ragged hat off with a sweep of a rifle barrel.

Misery grinned in keen delight and in ducking the blow scooped up a handful of gravel and tossed it into the weathered face.

“Damn your old hide, Misery! If it ain't you! Wait till I git rid of this dirt from my eyes and I'll climb you. Big beaver! But I'm glad to see you. Who's the young buckskin I see just before you put my eyes out?”

“Partner of mine, Ned. Killed his Injun up on the Rattlesnake when they had us cornered. I wouldn't be here if it wa'n't for his gun. He's going to be the ripsnortingest mountain man you ever see. He's going up Oregon way with me. We hoofed it alone from Frisco way here. Fighting every inch of the way. Left a trail of dead Injuns fifteen feet wide. Wiped out thirty out laws this side the Sierra. Had so many dry sculps we used 'em for wood for cooking our kettle when wood wa'n't handy.”

“You old liar! You fight Injuns? You'd never come east if the Digger Injuns hadn't took sticks and driv' you away. Younker's all right. He'll make a good mountain man, but he's tying up with a mighty weak partner. Heard you was in Californy from Tom Tobin. He's at Fort Hall. Dropped a word that he had a grudge to settle with you.”

“Tom Tobin at Fort Hall!” exclaimed Old Misery, his eyes lighting. “The little lying runt!”

“Yep. Spent a night at our camp. Said you bit him down in Californy.”

“The damned little runt! If I ever bit him he wouldn't have any head on his shoulders. My teeth slipped just as I was going to give my war-hoot. But I promised him a scrimmage next time we met. You go back with us and watch the fun. I'm a wolf from my shoulders up, and a grizzly bar, Sierra kind, from my shoulders down.”

Ned shook his head sadly.

“I've got to go through with this outfit as far as Fort Kearney. I'm home-sick already. Remember the time I saved your h'ar for you at the Three Tetons? You save that fuss till I git back.”

“Saved my ha'r, you ongrateful liar! And me packing you out the Injun country on my back! Couldn't even bring a big train down here without letting Injuns shoot arrers through it.”

“Red Cloud's band jumped us. Got two of our men. We bagged three of 'em that I see knocked dead.”

“And me and this younker stood off his whole outfit and killed seven and wounded a dozen.”

And he turned to Gilbert to have him vouch for the figures. But the Vermonter had heard little if any of their talk. He was staring at the train. Misery broke in on his reverie by saying:

“This is the train that pulled us out of that mess, younker. Red Cloud quit us to tackle it. If you've got 'nough of the fort we'll start up the trail to-day and make a dozen miles afore camping. I'll git fresh hosses and a pack-mule and plenty of grub and powder.”

Gilbert bowed his head on his hands. Fortunately Old Misery's mountain friend had turned back to the wagons and did not witness this weakness.

“My God! What's hitting you?” gasped Old Misery.

“I'm no good, Dad. Don't mind me just now. I'll be all right in a minute. I won't break down again— It's that train— It's going-East— It got me before I could guard against it. But I'll toughen up. I won't act the fool again.”

Old Misery dropped beside him and began pulling up the few blades of grass showing through the gravelly sand.

“You'd go back home, give up being a mountain man and go back, if it wa'n't for that bit of trouble?” he huskily mumbled.

“Oh, but I would! I wish I could go and take you with me.”

“Not by a damned sight! Anything but that, Young Buckskin. That's the new name they'd give you if you'd come with me— Then, bimeby, Old Buckskin— All plain now— Back in the fort on the Rattlesnake my medicine bothered me. Told me things I didn't dast tell you— All the way down here it was telling the same thing. I didn't git the sabe of it. Sounded heyoka 'less I figgered it one way. Kept saying in the lodge that we'd git clear, but that I'd lose you. That's been bearing down on my old neck ever since we struck out for this place.

“That's why I made long travels 'n' short travels, and started long afore sun-up and walked after dark, and come in here by a roundabout way. I believed my rock medicine meant you was to be rubbed out. And all the time it was saying you'd be rubbed out of my life, but not the way I'd figgered.”

“I don't understand you,” numbly remonstrated Gilbert. “I am here. We'll start for Oregon after this train gets under way. I probably won't feel this way when we see the next one.”

“Tunkan is right. His medicine never lies,” sorrowfully continued Old Misery. “You've got guts; but they ain't mountain guts. You've lived too long in the East, where they believe in double-time. If I could 'a' caught you younger— Well, that's all ended.”

“You're wishing to go back alone? I don't blame you,” muttered Gilbert, trying to conceal the shock the mountain man's speech had given him.

“Ned's wagon-train will take you back East. Dragoons will go with it to Kearney.”

“You know I can never go back East. But that's no reason why I should be a drag on you. Maybe I can get work here at the fort. They need men for cutting hay and fire-wood. Or I can get a job teaming.”

Old Misery pulled out the bag containing his medicine rock and from the bottom of it extracted a worn and soiled piece of paper and explained:

“Here's a writing. Saved it to give to you if you didn't pan out as a mountain man. I got it from a long cuss outside of Coloma. Men called him Elnathan Plumb. I give him 'nough gold to make up for what that young streak of scarlet got away from you. I told him you started for Coloma from Frisco with the money and was held up and robbed by Reelfoot Williams and was wounded a bit. I 'splained how I ran across Williams and made him fork over 'nough dust to square the money. So everything's all hunky back East. Now you git on your feet and foller me.”

With the precious paper clutched in his hand and his mouth agape the dazed Vermonter followed Misery to their camping place. From under the blankets the old man produced the bag tied in the middle. He dropped it at Gilbert's feet, saying:

“That's the lead you wanted to heave away. Hell of a tussle to fetch it way from Snake Martin's camp. He had it buried, and I got it. It's yours. Twenty thousand odd in dust 'n' nuggets. Buy a trading-store or a ranch, and marry that home-squaw.”

“You knew all the time I might weaken—”

“Rub it in. I'm o'nary 'n' low-down. Lived with the Crows too long, mebbe. But there was a chance you'd pan out a prime mountain man and like it. But I didn't go to play you dirt, younker.”

“Good lord! Paid up my stealings! Planned to give me a fortune. Dad, if I leave you I'm always going to feel mighty bad. If I stay—”

He paused, and his gaze swung back toward the fort, and his thoughts leaped to far-off Vermont and the dark haired Walker girl. For several minutes he remained motionless and silent, his eyes beholding the green-forested, amiable hills of home, the placid propriety of the village streets and a dark-haired girl standing by an ancient gate—waiting. And when he finally turned back to announce his decision he found he was alone.

The dust clouds followed the long wagon-train traveling under armed escort down the north fork of the Platte, the “Big Medicine Road” of the white men.

From a ridge Old Misery stood beside his horse and stared after it.

“Lawd! But I hated to let him go! Lawd! But I hated to send him home— Took care of me— Felt of my old head to see if I was sick— Lawd! But I feel sorter lonesome— Wonder if the mountains ever feel lonesome. Well, that's ended. That rock-medicine is damned strong— And there's that Tobin runt waiting for me— Said I bit him!”

THE END

Old Misery

CHAPTER I

EXPENSIVE ENTERTAINMENT

CHAPTER II

MR. PETERS TO THE RESCUE

CHAPTER III

OLD MISERY

CHAPTER IV

THE HIDDEN VALLEY

CHAPTER V

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE

CHAPTER VI

A NEW MEDICINE

CHAPTER VII

A MINING TRANSACTION

CHAPTER VIII

THE WHISPERERS

CHAPTER IX

OLD MIGUEL GOES TO TOWN

CHAPTER VI

“LIKE A WOLF I ROAM”

CHAPTER XI

SEEDS OF MUTINY

CHAPTER XII

AS PROCLAIMED BY TUNKAN

Formulir Kontak