The Twins of Suffering Creek

Suddenly his abstraction passed, and he bent over the disfiguring finger-marks. There was writing upon the paper, and the writing was not in Jessie’s hand. He raised it closer to his eyes and began to read. And, with each word he made out, his faculties became more and more angrily concentrated.

“You’ll hand the kid over at once. I’ll be on the Spawn City trail ten miles out. If you ain’t there with the kid noon to-morrow there’s going to be bad trouble.

James.”

“James! James!” Scipio almost gasped the name. His pale eyes were hot and furious, and the blood surged to his brain.

He had forgotten James until now. He had forgotten the traitor responsible for his undoing. So much was Jessie in his life that James had counted for little when he thought of her. But now the scoundrel swept all other thoughts pell-mell out of his head. He was suddenly ablaze with a rage such as he had never before experienced. All that was human in him was in a state of fierce resentment. He hated James, and desired with all his small might to do him a bodily hurt. Yes, he could even delight in killing him. He would show him no mercy. He would revel in witnessing his death agonies. This man had not only wronged him. He had killed also the spiritual purity of the mother of his children. Oh, how he hated him. And now–now he had dared to threaten. He, stained to his very heart’s core with villainy, had dared to interfere in a matter which concerned a mother’s pure love for her children. The thought maddened him, and he crushed the paper in his hand and ground it under his heel.

He would not do it. He could not. He had forgotten the association to which he was sending the innocent Vada. No, no. Innocent little Vada. Jessie must do without her.

He flung himself into a chair and gave himself up to passionate thought. For two hours he sat there raging, half mad with his hideous feelings against James. But as the long hours slipped away he slowly calmed. His hatred remained for the man, but he kept it out of his silent struggle with himself. In spite of his first heated decision he was torn by a guiding instinct that left him faltering. He realized that his hatred of the man, and nothing else, was really responsible for his negative attitude. And this was surely wrong. What he must really consider was the welfare of Vada, and–Jessie. The whole thing was so difficult, so utterly beyond him. He was drawn this way and that, struggling with a brain that he knew to be incompetent. But in the end it was again his heart that was victorious. Again his heart would take no denial.

Confused, weary, utterly at a loss to finally decide, he drew out Jessie’s letter again. He read it. And like a cloud his confusion dispersed and his mind became clear. His hatred of James was thrust once more into the background. Jessie’s salvation depended on Vada’s going. Vada must go.

He sighed as he rose from his chair and blew out the lamp.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” he murmured, passing into the bedroom. “Maybe. Well, I guess God’ll have to judge me, and–He knows.”

CHAPTER XVIII

ON THE ROAD

Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a man of lesser mental caliber.

The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to several thousand dollars of the “rich guys’” money, the rest of his visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower haunts where congregated the human jackals which hunt on the outskirts of such places.

And in these places he met many friends and acquaintances with whom he fraternized for the time being. And his sojourn cost him a good many dollars, dollars which he shed unstintingly, even without counting. Nor was he the man to part with his money in this casual manner without obtaining adequate return, and yet all he had to show as a result of his expedition was a word of information here and there, a suggestion or two which would scarcely have revealed to the outsider the interest which they held for him. Yet he seemed satisfied. He seemed very well satisfied indeed, and his reckless spirit warmed as he progressed in his peregrinations.

Then, too, he “dined” the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man’s company, and his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official’s almost unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.

Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.

However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a racing dog-train.

And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of lurid blasphemy.

Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses, but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a red-hot trail.

Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst Nature’s chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.

Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?

Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.

On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.

At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy. It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil, and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his horses–and his thoughts.

He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt, which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a violent curse.

“What in hell–!” he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.

“Mackinaw!” he cried. “What you doin’ out here?”

So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no attempt to even guess at Scipio’s purpose. He put his question without another thought behind it.

Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the grass lining the trail, passed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own presence there.

“Why,” he said hesitatingly, “why, I’m out after a–a prospect I heard of. Want to get a peek at it.”

The latter was said with more assurance, and he smiled vaguely into his friend’s face.

But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think. He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin coats of his horses.

“An’ you takin’ her out to help you locate it?” he inquired, with a raising of his shaggy brows.

“Not just that,” Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously difficult to lie with Bill’s steady eyes fixed on him. “Y’see–Say, am I near ten miles out from the camp?”

“Not by three miles.” Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He sighed and lifted his reins.

“Guess I’ll get on then,” he said in the dogged tone of a man who has made up his mind to an unpleasant task.

But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.

“That wher’ your prospect is?” he inquired casually.

Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further aggravation of the lie.

“Wher’ did you hear of the prospect?” Bill demanded shrewdly.

“I–”

But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word prospect.

“Wot’s ’prospect’?” she demanded.

Bill laughed without any change of expression.

“Prospect is wher’ you

expect

 to find gold,” he explained carefully.

The child’s eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she hesitated, but finally she proceeded.

“That ain’t wot we’re goin’ for,” she said simply. “Poppa’s goin’ to take me wher’ momma is. I’m goin’ to momma, an’ she’s ever so far away. Pop told me. Jamie’s goin’ to stay with him, an’ I’m goin’ to stay with momma, an’–an’–I want Jamie to come too.” Tears suddenly crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.

Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill’s fierce eyes were curiously alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father. At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed his relief that further lying was out of the question.

“I forgot–somehow–she knew. Y’see–”

But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no chance to continue.

“Say,” he interrupted him, “ther’s lies I hate, an’ ther’s lies that don’t make no odds. You’ve lied in a way I hate. You’ve lied ’cos you had to lie, knowin’ you was doin’ wrong. If you hadn’t know’d you was doin’ wrong you wouldn’t have needed to lie–sure. Say, you’re not only handin’ over that kiddie to her mother, you’re handin’ her over to that feller. Now, get to it an’ tell me things. An’–you needn’t to lie any.”

Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another man’s eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie’s letter had inspired.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife’s letter. He looked at it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached out and passed it to the gambler.

“She’s got to have her,” he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy and conviction. “She’s her mother. I haven’t a right to keep her. I–”

But Bill silenced him without ceremony.

“Don’t yap,” he cried. “How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin’ hot air?”

Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky’s mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have willingly gone away–

“Tosh!” cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to take back.

“Eh?”

“I said ‘tosh!’” replied the gambler. “How’d you get that letter?”

“It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone.”

“Yes?”

“There was a wrappin’ to it.” Then Scipio’s eyes began to sparkle at the recollection. “It was wrote on by the feller James,” he went on in a low voice.

Then suddenly he turned, and his whole manner partook of an impotent heat.

“He’d wrote I was to hand her, Vada, over to him ten miles out on this trail–or there’d be trouble.”

Wild Bill stirred and shifted his seat with a fierce dash of irritation. His face was stern and his black eyes blazing. He spat out his chew of tobacco.

“An’ you was scared to death, like some silly skippin’ sheep. You hadn’t bowel enough to tell him to go to hell. You felt like handin’ him any other old thing you’d got–‘Here, go on, help yourself.’” He flung out his arms to illustrate his meaning. “‘You got my wife; here’s my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my claim. Guess my shack’ll make you an elegant summer palace.’ Gee!”

The gambler’s scorn was withering, and with each burst of it he flourished his arms as though handing out possessions to an imaginary James. And every word he spoke smote Scipio, goading him and lashing up the hatred which burnt deep down in his heart for the man who had ruined his life.

But the little man’s thought of Jessie was not so easily set aside, and he jumped to defend himself.

“You don’t understand–” he began. But the other cut him short with a storm of scathing anger.

“No, I sure don’t understand,” he cried, “I don’t. I sure don’t. Guess I’m on’y jest a man. I ain’t no sort o’ bum angel, nor sanctimonious sky-bustin’ hymn-smiter. I’m on’y a man. An’ I kind o’ thank them as is responsible that I ain’t nuthin’ else. Say”–his piercing eyes seemed to bore their way right down to the little man’s heart like red-hot needles–“I ain’t got a word to say to you but you orter be herdin’ wi’ a crowd o’ mangy gophers. Tchah! A crowd o’ maggots ’ud cut you off’n their visitin’ list in a diseased carkis. Here’s a feller robs you in the meanest way a man ken be robbed, an’ you’re yearnin’ to hand him more–a low-down cur of a stage-robber, a cattle-thief, the lowest down bum ever created–an’ you’d hand over this pore innercent little kiddie to him. Was there ever sech a white-livered sucker? Say, you’re responsible fer that pore little gal’s life, you’re responsible fer her innercent soul, an’ you’d hand her over to James, like the worstest cur in creation. Say, I ain’t got words to tell you what you are. You’re a white-livered bum that even hell won’t give room to. You’re–”

“Here, hold on,” cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly blazing. “You’re wrong, all wrong. I ain’t doing it because I’m scared of James. I don’t care nothing for his threats. I’m scared of no man–not even you. See? My Jessie’s callin’ for her gal–my Jessie! Do you know what that means to me? No, of course you don’t. You don’t know my Jessie. You ain’t never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain’t never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can’t see as I can see. This little gal,” he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada’s small shoulders, “will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has hit the wrong trail, an’–an’ I’d sacrifice everything in the world to save her. I’d–I’d sell my own soul. I’d give it to–save her.”

Scipio looked fearlessly into the gambler’s eyes. His pale cheeks were lit by a hectic flush of intense feeling. There was a light in his eyes of such honesty and devotion that the other lowered his. He could not look upon it unmoved.

Bill sat back, for once in his life disconcerted. All his righteous indignation was gone out of him. He was confronted with a spectacle such as, in his checkered career, he had never before been brought into contact with. It was the meeting of two strangely dissimilar, yet perfectly human, forces. Each was fighting for what he knew to be right. Each was speaking from the bottom of a heart inspired by his sense of huma