The Twins of Suffering Creek

CHAPTER IV
SCIPIO BORROWS A HORSE

Scipio found an almost deserted camp after floundering his way over the intricate paths amongst the refuse-heaps.

The miners had departed to their claims with a punctuality that suggested Trades Union principles. Such was their existence. They ate to live; they lived to work, ever tracking the elusive metal to the earth’s most secret places. The camp claimed them only when their day’s work was done; for the rest, it supported only their most urgent needs.

Sunny Oak, lounging on a rough bench in the shadiest part of the veranda facing Minky’s store, raised a pair of heavy eyelids, to behold a dejected figure emerge from amidst the “dumps.” The figure was bearing towards the store in a dusty cloud which his trailing feet raised at every step. His eyes opened wider, and interested thought stirred in his somnolent brain. He recognized the figure and wondered. Scipio should have been out on his claim by this time, like the rest.

The lean long figure of the lounger propped itself upon its elbow. Curiously enough, lazy as he was, the smallest matter interested him. Had he suddenly discovered a beetle moving on the veranda he would have found food for reflection in its doings. Such was his mind. A smile stole into his indolent eyes, a lazy smile which spoke of tolerant good-humor. He turned so that his voice might carry in through the window which was just behind him.

“Say, Bill,” he cried, “here’s Zip comin’ down the trail.”

As though his announcement were sufficient to rouse an equal interest in those inside the store, he returned again to his contemplation of the approaching figure.

“What’s he doin’ around camp this hour?” inquired a harsh voice from beyond the window.

“Guess I ain’t a lightnin’ calc’lator,” observed Sunny, without withdrawing his gaze.

“Nope,” came the prompt retort from the invisible speaker; “guess it ’ud keep you busy trackin’ a fun’ral.”

“Which don’t need contradiction! I’m kind o’ makin’ holiday these times. Guess you ain’t never heerd tell o’ the ‘rest cure’?”

A rough laugh broke on the drowsy atmosphere.

“Sunny’s overworked just now,” said another voice, amidst the rattle of poker chips.

“Wher’ you bin workin’, Sunny?” inquired the harsh voice of the man addressed as Bill.

“Workin’!” cried the loafer, with good-natured scorn. “Say, I don’t never let a hobby interfere with the bizness of life.”

A half-smothered laugh answered him. Even the exigencies of a poker hand could not quite crush out the natural humor of these men, who always followed on the golden trail of the pioneers.

“Say, what’s your bizness?” demanded another voice presently.

“Restin’!” the man on the veranda answered easily.

The shuffle of cards and rattle of chips came with a snigger. And the answering lazy smile of Sunny Oak was good to see. It lit his unshaven face from his unwashed brow to his chin. And to an onlooker it might well have appeared a pity that an intense bodily indolence should so dominate his personality. He looked vastly capable, both mentally and physically.

But his eyes never left the on-coming Scipio. The little man moved with bowed head and trailing footsteps. The utter dispiritedness of his gait stirred even the self-centered watcher. But Scipio saw nothing of Sunny Oak. He saw nothing of anything but the despairing picture in his own mind. The ramshackle shanties which lined one side of the trail were passed unheeded. The yapping of the camp dogs at the unusual sight of so deplorable a figure at this hour of the day was quite unnoticed by him. The shelving rise of attenuated grassland which blocked the view of Suffering Creek on his left never for a moment came into his focus. His eyes were on the trail ahead of him, and never more than a few feet from where he trod. And those eyes were hot and staring, aching with their concentration upon the hideous picture which filled his brain.

As Scipio drew near Sunny Oak further bestirred himself, which was a concession not often yielded by that individual to anyone. He sat up, and his smile broadened. Then it faded out as he beheld the usually mild expression of the yellow-haired prospector now so set and troubled.

“Gee!” he murmured in an undertone. Then, with an evident effort, he offered a greeting.

“Ho, you, Zip! Drawn a blank way up ther’ on your mudbank?”

Scipio looked up in a dazed fashion. Then he halted and seemed to pull himself together. Finally he spoke.

“Howdy?” he said in a mechanical sort of way.

“Guess I’m a heap better,” responded Sunny, with twinkling eyes.

Scipio gazed up at the store in a bewildered way. He saw the great letters in which Minky’s name and occupation were inscribed on its pretentious front, and it seemed to bring back his purpose to his distracted mind. Instantly the other’s words became intelligible to him, and his native kindliness prompted him.

“You been sick?” he demanded.

“Wal, not rightly sick, but–ailin’.” Sunny’s smile broadened till a mouthful of fairly decent teeth showed through the fringe of his ragged mustache.

“Ailin’?”

“Yep. Guess I bin overdoin’ it.”

“It don’t do, working too hard in the heat,” said Scipio absently.

“Sure,” replied Sunny. “It’s been a hard job avoidin’ it. Ther’s allus folk ready to set me workin’. That’s just the way o’ things. What I need is rest. Say, you ain’t workin’?”

Scipio started.

“No. I’m looking for Wild Bill.”

Sunny Oak jerked his head backwards in the direction of the window.

“Guess he’s at work–in ther’.”

“Thanks.”

Scipio mounted the veranda and passed along to the door of the store. Sunny’s eyes followed him, but he displayed no other interest. With ears and brain alert, however, he waited. He knew that all he required to know would reach him through a channel that was quite effortless to himself. Again he stretched himself out on the bench, and his twinkling eyes closed luxuriously.

Minky’s store was very little different from other places of its kind. He sold everything that could possibly be needed in a newly started mining camp. He did not confine himself to hardware and clothing and canned goods, but carried a supply of drugs, stationery and general dry goods, besides liquor in ample quantities, if of limited quality. There was rye whisky, there was gin, and there was some sort of French brandy. The two latter were in the smallest quantities. Rye was the staple drink of the place.

The walls of the store were lined with shelves on every side, and the shelves were full, even overflowing to a piled-up confusion of goods which were stacked around on the floor. In the somewhat limited floor-space there were tables and benches which could be used for the dual purpose of drink and cards. But wherein Minky’s store was slightly out of the usual was the fact that he was not a Jew, and adopted no Jewish methods of trading. He was scrupulously honest with his customers, and fairly moderate in his charges, relying on this uncommon integrity and temperateness of disposition to make personal liking the basis of his commercial success.

It was perhaps a much further-sighted policy than one would suppose. Several men had endeavored to start in the store business in opposition to him, but in each case their enterprise had proved an utter failure. Not a man in the place would trade elsewhere. Minky was just “Minky,” whom they liked and trusted. And, what was much more to the point, who was ever ready to “trust” them.

Wild Bill was at the poker table with Minky, Sandy Joyce and Toby Jenks when Scipio entered the place. He was a gambler out and out. It was his profession. He was known as Wild Bill of Abilene, a man whose past was never inquired into by even the most youthful newcomer, whose present was a thing that none ever saw sufficient reason to question, and whose future suggested nothing so much as the general uncertainty of things human. He was a man of harsh exterior and, apparently, harsh purpose. His eyes were steely and his tongue ironical; he possessed muscles of iron and a knowledge of poker and all its subtleties that had never yet failed him. He was a dead shot with a pistol, and, in consequence, fear and respect were laid at his feet by his fellow-townsmen. He was also Minky’s most treasured friend.

Sandy Joyce had to his credit a married past, which somehow gave him a certain authority in the place. He was expected to possess a fund of wisdom in matters worldly, and he did his best to live up to this demand. He was also, by the way, an ex-cowpuncher suffering from gold fever, and between whiles played poker with Wild Bill until he had lost the result of his more regular labors. He was a slight, tall, bright-eyed man of thirty, with an elaborate flow of picturesque language. He was afraid of no man, but all women.

Toby Jenks was as short and squat as his friends were long and thin. He was good-tempered, and spent large remittances which reached him at regular intervals in the lulls which occurred in his desultory search for gold.

Minky, a plain, large man of blunt speech and gruff manners, looked up swiftly as Scipio entered, and a moment later three more pairs of eyes were fixed inquiringly upon the newcomer.

“Struck color?” inquired Minky, with his gruffest cordiality.

“No.”

Scipio’s entire attitude had distinctly undergone a change since Sunny Oak’s lazy eyes first discovered his approach. Where before the hopelessness of despair had looked out from every line of his mild face, now his mouth was set obstinately, and a decided thrust to his usually retiring chin became remarkable. Even his wispy hair had an aggression in the manner in which it obtruded from under the brim of his slouch hat. His eyes were nearly defiant, yet there was pleading in them, too. It was as if he were sure of the rightness of his purpose, but needed encouragement in its execution.

For the moment the poker game was stopped, a fact which was wholly due to the interest of the steely eyes of Wild Bill.

“Layin’ off?” inquired the gambler, without a moment’s softening.

“Guess you’re passin’ on that mud lay-out of yours,” suggested Sandy, with a laugh.

Scipio shook his head, and his lips tightened.

“No. I want to borrow a good horse from Bill here.”

The gambler set down the cards he had been shuffling. The statement seemed to warrant his action. He sat back in his chair and bit a chew of tobacco off a black plug. Minky and the others sat round and stared at the little man with unfeigned interest.

“You’re needin’ a hoss?” demanded Bill, without attempting to disguise his surprise. “What for?”

Scipio drew a hand across his brow; a beady sweat had broken out upon it.

“Oh, nothing to bother folk with,” he said, with a painful attempt at indifference. “I’ve got to hunt around and find that feller, ‘Lord’ James.”

A swift glance flashed round the table from eye to eye. Then Sunny Oak’s voice reached them from beyond the window–

“Guess you’ve a goodish ways to travel.”

“Time enough,” said Scipio doggedly.

“What you need to find him for?” demanded Wild Bill, and there was a change in the glitter of his fierce eyes. It was not that they softened, only now they had the suggestion of an ironical smile, which, in him, implied curiosity.

Scipio shifted his feet uneasily. His pale eyes wandered to the sunlit window. One hand was thrust in his jacket pocket, and the fingers of it fidgeted with the rusty metal of the gun that bulged its sides. This pressure of interrogation was upsetting the restraint he was putting on himself. All his grief and anger were surging uppermost again. With a big effort, which was not lost upon his shrewd audience, he choked down his rising emotion.

“Oh, I–I’d like to pay him a ‘party call,’” he blurted out.

Minky was about to speak, but Wild Bill kept him silent with a sharp glance. An audible snigger came from beyond the window.

“Guess you know jest wher’ you’ll locate him?” inquired the gambler.

“No, but I’m going to find him, sure,” replied Scipio doggedly. Then he added, with his eyes averted, “Guess I shan’t let up till I do.”

There was a weak sparkle in the little man’s eyes.

“What’s your game?” rasped Bill curiously.

“Oh, just nothin’.”

The reply caused a brief embarrassed pause. Then the gambler broke it with characteristic force.

“An’ fer that reason you’re–carryin’ a gun,” he said, pointing at the man’s bulging pocket.

Sandy Joyce ceased stacking his “chips”; Toby squared his broad shoulders and drained an already empty glass. Minky blinked his astonishment, while Wild Bill thrust his long legs out and aggressively pushed his hat back on his head. It was at that moment that curiosity overcame Sunny Oak’s habitual indolence, and his face appeared over the window-sill.

“He’s stole from me,” said Scipio in a low tone.

“What’s he stole?” demanded the gambler savagely.

“My wife.”

The stillness of the room remained unbroken for some moments. Actions came far easier to these men than mere words. Scipio’s words had a paralyzing effect upon their powers of speech, and each was busy with thoughts which they were powerless to interpret into words. “Lord” James was a name they had reason to hate. It was a name synonymous with theft, and even worse–to them. He had stolen from their community, which was unforgivable, but this–this was something new to them, something which did not readily come into their focus. Wild Bill was the first to recover himself.

“How d’you know?” he asked.

“She wrote telling me.”

“She went ’cos she notioned it?” inquired Sandy.

“He’s stole her–he’s stole my Jessie,” said Scipio sullenly.

“An’ you’re goin’ to fetch her back?” Bill’s question whipped the still air.

“Sure–she’s mine.”

Scipio’s simplicity and single-mindedness brought forth a sigh of intense feeling from his hearers.

“How?” Wild Bill’s method of interrogation had a driving effect.

“She’s mine, an’–I’m going to get her back.” There was pity at the man’s obstinate assertion in every eye except Wild Bill’s.

“Say, Zip, he’ll kill you,” said the gambler, after a pause.

“She’s my wife. She’s mine,” retorted Scipio intensely. “An’ I’ll shoot him dead if he refuses to hand her over.”

“Say,” the gambler went on, ignoring the man’s protest–the idea of Scipio shooting a man like James was too ludicrous–“you’re up agin a bad proposition, sure. James has stole your–wife. He’s stole more. He’s a stage-robber.”

“A cattle-thief,” broke in Sandy.

“A ‘bad man’ of the worst,” nodded Minky.

“He’s all these, an’ more,” went on Bill, scowling. “He’s a low-down skunk, he’s a pestilence, he’s a murderer. You’re goin’ to hunt him back ther’ to his own shack in the foothills with his gang of toughs around him, an’ you’re goin’ to make him hand back your wife. Say, you’re sure crazy. He’ll kill you. He’ll blow your carkis to hell, an’ charge the devil freightage for doin’ it.”

There was a look of agreement in the eyes that watched Scipio’s mild face. There was more: there was sympathy and pity for him, feelings in these men for which there was no other means of expression.

But Scipio was unmoved from his purpose. His underlip protruded obstinately. His pale eyes were alight with purpose and misery.

“He’s stole my–Jessie,” he cried, “an’ I want her back.” Then, in a moment, his whole manner changed, and his words came with an irresistible pleading. Hard as was the gambler, the pathos of it struck a chord in him the existence of which, perhaps, even he was unaware.

“You’ll lend me a horse, Bill?” the little man cried. “You will, sure? I got fifty dollars saved for the kiddies’ clothes. Here it is,” he hurried on, pulling out a packet of bills from his hip pocket. “You take ’em and keep ’em against the horse. It ain’t sufficient, but it’s all I got. I’ll pay the rest when I’ve made it, if your horse gets hurted. I will, sure. Say,” he added, with a happy inspiration, “I’ll give you a note on my claim–ha’f of it. You’ll do it? You–”

Bill’s face went suddenly scarlet. Something made him lower his eyelids. It was as though he could not look on that eager face unmoved any longer. Somehow he felt in a vague sort of way that poor Scipio’s spirit was altogether too big for his body. Bigger by far than that of those sitting there ready to deride his purpose, and crush it to a weak yielding such as, in their minds, was the only possible thing for a man of his like.

“You set them bills right back in your dip,” he cried, with a savageness that was only a mask to his real feelings; “I don’t need ’em. You ken get right out to the barn an’ have your pick o’ my plugs, an’ anythin’ you need else. Guess you best take the black mare. She’ll carry you all day for a week, sure, an’ then laff at you. Get right on, an’–an’–good luck!”

There are actions performed in every man’s life for which he can never account, even to himself. Such was the act Wild Bill performed at that moment. Gambling was his living, but his horses were a passion with him. He possessed, perhaps, some of the finest in the country, and he worshiped them. He had never been known to lend a horse to his best friend, and no one but himself had ever been allowed to feed or groom them. He was prouder of them than a father might be of his firstborn son, and as careful of them as any doting mother. Therefore his assent to Scipio’s request was quite staggering to his companions. Nor did he know why he did it, and a furious anger followed immediately upon this unusual outburst of good-nature.

Scipio was profuse in his thanks. But he was cut short with a violence that seemed quite unnecessary. For the moment, at least, Bill hated the little man almost as much as he hated this “Lord” James he was setting out in search of.

After that no word passed until Scipio had left the store for the barn. Bill sat wrapt in moody thought, his fierce eyes lowered in contemplation of his well-shod feet. His cards were forgotten, the men around him were forgotten. Sandy and the storekeeper were watching his harsh face in wonder, while Toby’s head was turned in the direction of the departing man. It was Sunny Oak from his post at the window who finally broke the silence.

“Guess you gone plumb ‘bug,’ Bill,” he said, with an amiable grin. Then, as only a flicker of a smile from the others answered him, and Bill ignored his charge altogether, he hurried on, “You’re helpin’ that misguided feller to a dose of lead he’ll never have time to digest. If ever Zip runs foul of James, he’ll blow him to hell as sure–as ther’s allus work for those as don’t need it. An’, wot’s more, you’ll never set eyes on your black mare agin, ’less it’s under James’ saddle. You’re sure ‘bug.’ You oughter be seen to.”

It was only Sunny Oak who would have dared to say so much to the gambler. But then, for some unstated reason, Sunny was a privileged person on Suffering Creek. Nobody paid much attention to the manner in which he allowed his tongue to run on, and, besides, he was too lazy to be afraid of anybody.

Bill looked round.

“You’re side-tracked,” he observed contemptuously. “James won’t shoot Jessie’s husband. Maybe he’ll kick him out, maybe he’ll roast him bad, and tongue-lash him. Anyways, every man’s got to play his own hand. An’–it’s good to see him playin’ hard, win or lose. But Zip’ll git back, sure. An’ he’ll bring my mare with him. Go to sleep, Sunny; your thinkin’-pan’s nigh hatched out.”

“I don’t guess he’ll ever get alongside James,” observed Minky thoughtfully. “We’ve all looked for him a piece. We know he’s got a shanty back in the foothills, but I don’t seem to remember hearin’ of anybody findin’ it. I don’t guess Zip’s wise to where it is.”

Bill’s eyes lit with a curious fire.

“Guess Zip’ll find him,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll take him time–”

“An’,” cried Sunny, “how’s them pore kiddies to live meanwhiles?”

The loafer fired his little bomb with the desired effect. The men had no answer for some moments. And gradually all eyes fixed themselves upon Bill’s face, as though acknowledging his leadership. He answered the challenge in characteristic fashion.

“Guess we’ll turn Sunny loose to wet-nurse ’em.”

An announcement which set Sunny plunging headlong to his own defense.

“Say, ain’t ther’ no sort o’ peace for a feller as needs rest? You’re all mighty smart settin’ folks to work. But this is your game, Bill, an’ it’s up to you to put it thro’. I ’low you’d make an elegant wet-nurse–so soft and motherish.”

But Bill had had enough, and turned upon the face at the window in his most savage manner.

“See here,” he cried, with fierce irony, “we’ve all know’d you since Sufferin’ Creek was Sufferin’ Creek, an’ nobody ain’t never kicked. But it’s kind o’ ne’ssary for every feller around these parts to justify ’emselves. Get me? You need ‘justifyin’.’ Wal, I guess you’ll see to them kiddies till Zip comes back. It’s going to be your work seein’ they don’t get fixed into any sort o’ trouble, an’ when Zip gets back you’ll hand ’em over clean an’ fixed right. Get that? I’m payin’ for their board, an’ I’m payin’ you a wage. An’ you’re goin’ to do it, or light right out o’ here so quick your own dust’ll choke you.”

“Here, here!” cried Toby, with a delighted laugh.

Sandy grinned into the loafer’s angry face, while Minky nodded an unsmiling approval.

“Gee, you beat hell for nerve!” cried Sunny.

“Guess I ken do better. I ken beat you,” retorted Bill contemptuously. “You’ll do it, or–you ken start gettin’ out now,” he added.

Sunny realized his position by the expression of the other men’s faces, and, quickly resuming his good-humored plaint, he acquiesced with a grumble.

“Gee! but it’s a tough world,” he complained, dropping back on to his bench hurriedly, lest fresh demands should be made upon him, and just in time to witness Scipio leading a beautiful black mare up to the tying-post.

The men in the store turned out at the sound of horse’s hoofs, and stood gathered on the veranda. Bill’s keen eyes were fixed regretfully on the shining sides of his favorite animal. She was a picture of lean muscle and bone, with a beautiful small head, and ears that looked little larger than well-polished mussel-shells. She stood pawing the ground impatiently while Scipio tied her to the post, and she nuzzled his ribs playfully with her twitching lips in the most friendly spirit. But Bill’s eyes were suddenly arrested by the manner in which she was saddled and bridled. Poor Scipio had blundered in a hopeless fashion.

Other eyes, too, had seen the blunder, and Sandy Joyce suddenly pointed.

“Mackinaw! Jest get that,” he cried.

“By Gee!” laughed Sunny.

But Wild Bill cut them all short in a surprising manner.

“Say, guess you fellers ain’t never made no sort o’ mistakes–any o’ you. You’re laffin’ a heap. Quit it, or–” His eyes flashed dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.

The little man’s attempt at saddling, under any other circumstances, would have brought forth Bill’s most scathing contempt. The saddle was set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the mare’s withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.

Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.

“Say, Zip,” he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, “I don’t guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I’ll jest fix ’em.” And the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he shifted the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups, and passed on to the mare’s bridle–Scipio watching him all the while without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into his lean face with an almost dog-like gratitude.

“Thanks, Bill,” he said. “I never done it before.”

“So I guessed.” And the gambler’s words, though wholly harsh, had no other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the saddle, “You don’t need to worry any ’bout things here. Your kiddies’ll be seen to proper till you get back, if you’re on the trail a month.”

Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.

“Say–you–”

But Bill wanted no thanks or explanations.

“We’re seein’ to them things–us, an’ that all-fired lazy slob, Sunny Oak. Ther’ won’t be no harm–” He flicked the restive mare, which bounded off with the spring of a gazelle. “Ease your hand to her,” he called out, so as to drown Scipio’s further protestations of gratitude, “ease your hand, you blamed little fule. That’s it. Now let her go.”

And the mare raced off in a cloud of dust.