Louisiana Lou. A Western Story

CHAPTER XX
LOUISIANA!

On the following morning, De Launay, finding his patients doing well, once more left the camp after seeing that everything was in order and food for the invalids prepared and set to their hands. Among Solange’s effects he had found a pair of prism binoculars, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he made his way on foot to the lower end of the valley, up the encircling cliffs and out on the ridge which surrounded the crater.

Here he hunted until he came upon a narrow, out-jutting ledge which overlooked the country below and the main backbone of the range to the southward and eastward. From here he could see over the bench at the base of the cliff, with its maze of tangled, down timber, and on to the edge of Shoestring Cañon, though he could not see down into that gulch. Above Shoestring, however, he could see the rough trail which wound out of the cañon on the opposite side and up toward the crest of the range, where it was lost among the timber-clad gorges and peaks of the divide. Over this trail came such folk as crossed the range from the direction of Maryville. All who came from the Idaho side would head in by way of Shoestring and come up the cañon.

That day, although he swept the hills assiduously with his glasses, he saw nothing. The dark smears and timber, startlingly black against the snow, remained silent, brooding and inviolate, as though the presence of man had never stirred their depths.

He did not remain long. Fearing that he would be needed at the cabin, he returned before noon. Solange was progressing bravely, though she was still weak. Sucatash, however, was in worse shape and evidently would not be fit to move for several days.

The next day he did not go to his post, but on the third morning, finding Sucatash improving, he again took up his vigil. On that day banked clouds hovered over the high peaks and nearly hid them from view. A chill and biting wind almost drove him from his post.

Seeing nothing, he was about to return, but, just as a heavy flurry of snow descended upon him, he turned to give one last look toward the divide and found it lost in mist which hung down into the timber. Under this fleecy blanket, the cañon and the lower part of the trail stood forth clearly.

Just as De Launay was about to lower his glasses, a man rode out of the timber, driving before him a half dozen pack horses. The soldier watched him as he dropped below the rim of the cañon and, although distant, thought he detected signs of haste in his going.

This man had been gone hardly more than ten minutes when a second horseman rode down the trail. There might have been doubt in the case of the first rider, but it was certain that the second was in a hurry. He urged his horse recklessly, apparently in pursuit of the first man, whom he followed below the cañon’s rim.

De Launay was earlier than usual at his post the next day. Yet he was not too early to meet the evidence of activity which was even more alert than his. But before he could settle himself he saw the trail across the cañon alive with moving men and beasts. In ones, twos, and threes they came. Some rode singly and without outfit, while others urged on pack animals. But one and all were in a hurry.

He counted more than twoscore travelers who dropped into Shoestring within an hour and a half. Then there was a pause in the rush. For an hour no more came.

After that flowed in another caravan. His glasses showed these were better equipped than the first comers though he was too far away to get any accurate idea of what they carried. Still a dim suspicion was filling his mind, and as each of the newcomers rushed down the trail and over the cañon rim his suspicion took more vivid form until it became conviction and knowledge.

“By heavens! It’s a mining rush!”

His mind worked swiftly. He jumped at the evidence he had seen where Banker had staked a claim. The prospector had ridden to Maryville to record the claims. He had been followed, and in an incredibly short time here were veritable hordes rushing into Shoestring Cañon. If this was the vanguard what would be the main body? It must have been a strike of fabulous proportions that had caused this excitement. And that strike must be —

“French Pete’s Bonanza!” he almost yelled.

The thing was astounding and it was true. In naming a rendezvous he, himself, had directed these men to the very spot – because there was no other spot. The obvious, as usual, had been passed by for years while the seekers had sought in the out-of-the-way places. But where would Pete find a mine when he was returning to the ranch with his flock? Surely not in the out-of-the-way places, for he would not be leading his sheep by such ways. He would be coming through the range by the shortest and most direct route, the very route that was the most frequented – and that was the trail over the range and down Shoestring Cañon.

De Launay wanted to shout with laughter as he thought of the search of years ending in this fashion: the discovery of the Bonanza, under the very nose of the dead man’s daughter, by the very man who had murdered him!

But his impulse was stifled as his keen mind cast back over the past days. He recalled the rescue of Solange and the ambush from the top of the great, flat outcrop. Vague descriptions of Pete’s location, heard in casual talks with Solange, came to him. The old sheep-herder had been able to describe his find as having been made where he had eaten his noonday meal “on a rock.” That rock – the Lunch Rock, as it had been called, had even given the mine a name in future legend, as the Peg Leg had been named.

But there had been no rock that could answer the description near the camp. At least there had been only one, and that one had been the flat outcrop on which Banker had lain at length and from which he had attempted to shoot De Launay.

Then swiftly he recalled Solange’s cry of warning and his own swift reaction. He had fired at the eyes and forehead appearing above the edge of the rock and he had hit the edge of the rock itself. He had laughed to see the mad prospector clawing at his eyes, filled with the powdered rock, and had laughed again to see his later antics as he stood upright, while De Launay rode away, waving his arms in the air and yelling.

He saw now what had caused those frantic gestures and shouts. It had been he, De Launay, who had uncovered to the prospector’s gaze the gold which should have been mademoiselle’s.

No wonder he had no desire to laugh as he turned back into the valley. He was weighted down with the task that was his. He had to tell Solange that the quest on which she had come was futile. That her mine was found – but by another, and through his own act. He visualized those wonderful eyes which had, of late, looked upon him with such soft fire, dulling under the chilling shock of disappointment, mutely reproaching him for her misfortune and failure.

The wild Vale of Avalon, which had seemed such a lovely haven for Morgan la fée, had lost its charm. He plodded downward and across the rank grass, going slowly and reluctantly to the cabin. Entering it, he went first to Sucatash, asking him how he felt.

The cow-puncher raised himself with rapidly returning strength, noting the serious expression on De Launay’s face.

“I’m getting right hearty,” he answered. “I’ll drag myself out and sit up to-night, I reckon. But you don’t look any too salubrious yourself, old-timer. Aimin’ to answer sick call?”

“No,” said De Launay. “Thinking about mademoiselle. You remember those stakes we saw?”

“Banker’s claim? Sure.”

“Well, he’s struck something. There is a small army pouring into Shoestring from Maryville. It’s a regular, old-time gold rush.”

“Damn!” said Sucatash, decisively.

He pondered the news a moment.

“In these days,” he finally said, “with gold mines bein’ shut down because it don’t pay to work ’em, there wouldn’t be no rush unless he’d sure struck something remarkable.”

“You’ve guessed it!” said De Launay.

“It’s French Pete’s mine?”

“I don’t see any other explanation.”

Again Sucatash was silent for a time. Then:

“That little girl is sure out o’ luck!” he said. There was a deep note of sympathy in the casual comment. And the cow-puncher looked at De Launay in a manner which the soldier readily interpreted.

“No mine, no means of support, no friends within five thousand miles; nothing – but a husband she doesn’t want! Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Not meaning any offense, it was something like that,” said Sucatash, candidly.

“She’ll get rid of the incumbrance, without trouble,” said De Launay, shortly.

“Well, she ain’t quite shy of friends, neither. I ain’t got no gold mines – never took no stock in them. But I’ve got a bunch of cows and the old man’s got a right nice ranch. If it wasn’t for one thing, I’d just rack in and try my luck with her.”

“What’s the one thing?”

“You,” said Sucatash, briefly.

“I’ve already told you that I don’t count. Her marriage was merely a formality and she’ll be free within a short time.”

Sucatash grinned. “I hate to contradict you, old-timer. In fact, I sure wish you was right. But, even if she don’t know it herself, I know. It sure beats the deuce how much those eyes of hers can say even when they don’t know they’re sayin’ it.”

De Launay nodded. He was thinking of the lights in them when she had turned them on him of late.

“They told me something, not very long ago – and I’m gamblin’ there won’t be any divorce, pardner.”

“There probably won’t,” De Launay replied, shortly. “It won’t be necessary.”

He got up and went into the other room where Solange reclined on the bunk. He found her sitting up, dressed once more in leather breeches and flannel shirtwaist, and looking almost restored to full strength. Her cheeks were flushed again, but this time with the color of health. The firelight played on her hair, glowing in it prismatically. Her eyes, as she turned them on him, caught the lights and drew them into their depths. They were once more fathomless and hypnotic.

But De Launay did not face them. He sat down on a rude stool beside the fire and looked into the flame. His face was set and indifferent.

“Monsieur,” said Solange, “you are changed again, it seems. It is not pleasant to have you imitate the chameleon, in this manner. What has happened?”

“Your mine has been found,” said De Launay, shortly.

Solange started, half comprehending. Then, as his meaning caught hold, she cried out, hesitating, puzzled, not knowing whether his manner meant good news or bad.

“But – if it has been found, that is good news? Why do you look so grim, monsieur? Is it that you are grieved because it has been found?”

De Launay had half expected an outburst of joyous questions which would have made his task harder. In turn, he was puzzled. The girl did not seem either greatly excited or overjoyed. In fact, she appeared to be doubtful. Probably she could not realize the truth all at once.

“It has been found,” he went on, harshly, “by Banker, the prospector from whom I rescued you.”

Solange remained still, staring at him. He sat with elbows on his knees, his face outlined in profile by the fire. Clean and fine lined it was, strong with a thoroughbred strength, a face that a woman would trust and a man respect. As she looked at it, noting the somber suppression of emotion, she read the man’s reluctance and disappointment for her. She guessed that he buried his feelings under that mask and she wondered wistfully how deep those feelings were.

“Then,” she said, at last, “it is not likely that this Monsieur Banker would acknowledge my claim to the mine?”

“The mine is his under the law. I am afraid that you have no claim to it. Your father never located it nor worked it. As for Banker – ”

He paused until she spoke.

“Well? And what of this Banker?”

“He will not hold it long. But he has heirs, no doubt, who would not acknowledge your claim. Still, I will do my best. Sucatash will back us up when we jump the claim.”

“Jump the claim? What is that?”

He explained briefly the etiquette of this form of sport.

“But,” objected Solange, “this man will resist, most certainly. That would mean violence.”

A faint smile curled the man’s mouth under the mustache. “I am supposed to be a violent man,” he reminded her. “I’ll do the killing, and you and Sucatash will merely have to hold the claim. The sympathy of the miners will be with you, and there should be little difficulty unless it turns out that some one has a grubstake interest.”

He had to explain again the intricacies of this phase of mining. Solange listened intently, sitting now on the edge of the bunk. When he was done, she slid to her feet and took position beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder. Behind her, by the side of the bunk, was a short log, set on end as a little table, on which rested the holstered automatic which De Launay had left with her.

“It appears then,” she said, when he had finished, “that, in any event I have no right to this mine. In order to seize it, you would have to fight and perhaps kill some one. But, monsieur, I am not one who would wish you to be a common bravo – a desperado – for me. This mine, it is nothing. We shall think no more of it.”

Again De Launay was mildly surprised. He had supposed that the loss of the mine would affect her poignantly and yet she was dismissing it more lightly than he could have done had she not been concerned. And in her expression of consideration for him there was a sweetness that stirred him greatly. He lifted his hand to hers where it rested on his shoulder, and she did not withdraw from his touch.

“And yet,” he said, “there is no reason that you should concern yourself lest I act like a desperado. There are those who would say that I merely lived up to my character. The General de Launay you have heard of, I think?”

“I have heard of him as a brave and able man,” answered Solange.

“And as a driver of flesh and blood beyond endurance, a butcher of men. It was so of the colonel, the commandant, the capitaine. And, of the légionnaire, you have heard what has always been heard. We of the Légion are not lap dogs, mademoiselle.”

“I do not care,” said Solange.

“And before the Légion, what? There was the cow-puncher, the range bully, the gunman; the swashbuckling flourisher of six-shooters; the notorious Louisiana.”

He heard her breath drawn inward in a sharp hiss. Then, with startling suddenness, her hand was jerked from under his but not before he had sensed an instant chilling of the warm flesh. Wondering, he turned to see her stepping backward in slow, measured steps while her eyes, fixed immovably upon him, blazed with a fell light, mingled of grief, horror and rage. Her features were frozen and pale, like a death mask. The light of the fire struck her hair and seemed to turn it into a wheel of angry flame.

There was much of the roused fury in her and as much of a lost and despairing soul.

“Louisiana!” she gasped. “You! You are Louisiana?”

CHAPTER XXI
GOLD SEEKERS

Puzzled, but watchful and alert, De Launay saw her retreating, sensing the terrible change that had come over her.

“Yes, I am Louisiana,” he said. “What is the matter?”

In answer she laughed, while one hand went to the breast of her shirtwaist and the other reached behind her, groping for something as she paced backward. Like a cameo in chalk her features were set and the writhing flames in her hair called up an image of Medusa. There was no change in expression, but through her parted lips broke a low laugh, terrible in its utter lack of feeling.

“And I have for my husband – Louisiana! Quelle farce!”

The hand at her breast was withdrawn and in it fluttered the yellow paper that Wilding had brought from Maryville to Wallace’s ranch. She flung it toward him, and as he stooped to pick it up, her groping hand fell on the pistol resting on the upturned log at the side of the bunk. She drew it around in front of her, dropped the holster at her side and snapped the safety down. Her thumb rested on the hammer and she stood still, tensely waiting.

De Launay read the notice of reward swiftly and looked up. His face was stern, but otherwise expressionless.

“Well?” he demanded, his eyes barely resting on the pistol before they swept to meet her own blazing gaze. There was no depth to her eyes now. Instead they seemed to be fire surrounded by black rims.

“You have read – murderer!”

“I have read it.” De Launay’s voice was like his face, and in both appeared a trace of contempt.

“What have you to say before I kill you?”

“That you would have shot before now had you been able to do it,” answered De Launay, and now the note of contempt was deeper. He turned his back to her and leaned forward over the fire, one outstretched hand upon the stone slab that formed the rude mantel.

The girl stood there immobile. The hand that held the pistol was not raised nor lowered. The thumb did not draw back the hammer. But over her face came, gradually, a change; a desperate sorrow, an abandonment of hope. Even the light in her hair that had made it a flaming wheel seemed in some mysterious way to die down. The terrible fire in her eyes went out as though drowned in rising tears.

A sob burst from her lips and her breast heaved. De Launay gazed down upon the fire, and his face was bitter as though he tasted death.

Solange slowly reached behind her again and dropped the heavy weapon upon the log. Then, in a choked voice she struggled to call out:

“Monsieur Wallace! Will you come?”

In the next room there was a stirring of hasty movements. Sucatash raised a cheery and incongruous voice.

“Just a minute, mad’mo’selle! I’m comin’ a-runnin’.”

He stamped into his boots and flung the door open, disheveled, shirt open at the neck. Astonished, he took in the strange attitudes of the others.

“What’s the answer?” he asked. “What was it you wanted, ma’am?”

Solange turned to him, her grief-ridden face stony in its hopelessness.

“Monsieur, you are my friend?”

“For mayhem, manslaughter or murder,” he answered at once. “What’s wanted?”

“Then – will you take this pistol, and kill that man for me?”

Sucatash’s eyes narrowed and his mottled hair seemed to bristle. He turned on De Launay.

“What’s he done?” he asked, with cold fury.

De Launay did not move. Solange answered dully.

“He is the man who – married me – when he was the man who had murdered my father!”

But Sucatash made no move toward the pistol. He merely gaped at her and at De Launay. His expression had changed from anger to stupidity and dazed incomprehension.

“What’s that? He murdered your father?”

“He is Louisiana!”

“He? Louisiana! I allowed he was an old-timer. Well, all I can say is – heaven’s delights!”

Solange put out her hand to the edge of the bunk as though she could not support herself longer unaided. Her eyes were half closed now.

“Will you kill him, monsieur? If you do, you may have – of me – anything – that you ask!”

The words were faltered out in utter weariness. For one instant De Launay’s eyes flickered toward her, but Sucatash had already sprung to her side and was easing her to a seat on the edge of the bunk. Her head drooped forward.

“Ma’am,” said Sucatash, earnestly, “you got me wrong. I can’t kill him – not for that.”

“Not for that?” she repeated, wonderingly.

“Never in the world! I thought he’d insulted you, and if he had I’d a taken a fall out of him if he was twenty Louisianas. But this here notion you got that he beefed your father – that’s all wrong! You can’t go to downin’ a man on no such notions as that!”

“Why not?” asked Solange, in a stifled voice.

“Because he never done it – that’s whatever. You’d never get over it, mad’mo’selle, if you done that and then found you was wrong! And you are wrong.”

Slowly, Solange dragged herself upright. She was listless, the lightness had gone out of her step. Without a word, she reached out and lifted her leather coat from the nail on which it hung. Then she dragged her leaden feet to the door. Sucatash silently followed her.

In the other room she spoke once.

“Will you saddle my horse for me, monsieur?”

“There ain’t no place for you to go, ma’am.”

“Nevertheless, I shall go. If you please – ”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

She followed him to the door, putting on her coat. Outside, she sat down on a log and remained stonily oblivious as Sucatash hastily caught up several horses and dragged saddles and alforjas into position. The westering sun was getting low along the rim of the crater and he worked fast with the knowledge that night would soon be upon them. Inside the cabin he heard De Launay moving about. A moment later as he entered to gather Solange’s equipment, he saw the soldier seated at the rough table busy with paper and fountain pen.

As Sucatash went past him, carrying an armload of blankets and a tarpaulin, De Launay held out a yellow paper.

“She will want this,” he said, and then bent over his writing.

Again, when Sucatash came in for more stuff, De Launay stopped him. He held out the pen, indicating the sheet of paper spread upon the table.

“This needs two witnesses, I think, but one will have to serve. She is my wife, after all – but it will make it more certain. Will you sign it?”

Sucatash glanced hastily at the document, reading the opening words: “I, Louis Bienville de Launay, colonel and late general of division of the army of France, being of sound and disposing mind, do make, declare, and publish this my Last Will and Testament – ”

His eye caught only one other phrase: “I give, bequeath, and devise to my dearly beloved wife, Solange – ”

With an oath, Sucatash savagely dashed his signature where De Launay indicated, and then rushed out of the room. The soldier took another piece of paper and resumed his writing. When he had finished he folded the two sheets into an envelope and sealed it. Outside, Sucatash was heaving the lashings taut on the last packs.

De Launay came to the door and stood watching the final preparations. Solange still sat desolately on the log.

Finally Sucatash came to her and assisted her to rise. He led her to her horse and held the stirrup for her as she swung to the saddle. He was about to mount himself when De Launay caught his eye. Instead, he stepped to the soldier’s side.

“Take this,” said De Launay, holding out the envelope. “Give it to her to-morrow. And – she needn’t worry about the mine – or Banker.”

“She’s not even thinkin’ about them!” growled Sucatash.

He turned and strode to his horse. In another moment they were riding rapidly toward the rim of the crater.

De Launay watched them for some time and then went into the cabin. He came out a moment later carrying saddle and bridle. On his thighs were now hanging holsters on both sides, and both were strapped down at the bottoms.

He caught and saddled his horse, taking his time to the operation. Then, searching the darkening surface of the crater wall, he found no trace of the two who had ridden away. But he busied himself in getting food and eating it. It was fully an hour after they had gone before he mounted and rode after them.

By this time Solange and Sucatash had reached the rim and were well on their way through the down timber. More by luck than any knowledge of the way, they managed to strike the game trail, and wound through the impeding snags, the cow-puncher taking the lead and the girl following listlessly in his wake. Before dark had come upon them they had gained the level bench and were riding toward the gulch which led into the cañon.

After a while Sucatash spoke. “Where you aimin’ to camp, ma’am?”

“I am going down to these miners,” she said flatly.

“But, mad’mo’selle, that camp ain’t no place for you. There ain’t no women there, most likely, and the men are sure to be a tough bunch. I wouldn’t like to let you go there.”

“I am going,” she answered. To his further remonstrances she interposed a stony silence.

He gave it up after a while. As though that were a signal, she became more loquacious.

“In a mining camp, one would suppose that the men, as you have said, are violent and fierce?”

“They’re sure likely to be some wolfish, ma’am,” he agreed. In hope that she would be deterred by exaggeration, he dwelt on the subject. “The gunmen and hoss thieves and tinhorn gamblers all come in on the rush. There’s a lot of them hobos and wobblies – reds and anarchists and such – floatin’ round the country, and they’re sure to be in on it, too. I reckon any of them would cut a throat or down a man for two bits in lead money. Then there’s the kind of women that follows a rush – the kind you wouldn’t want to be seen with even – and the men might allow you was the same kind if you come rackin’ in among ’em.”

Solange listened thoughtfully and even smiled bleakly.

“These men would kill, you say, for money?”

“For money, marbles or chalk,” said Sucatash. He was about to embellish this when she nodded with satisfaction.

“That is good,” she said. “And, if not for money, for a woman – one of that kind of woman – they would shoot a man?”

Sucatash blanched. “What are you drivin’ at, ma’am?”

“They will kill for me, for money – or if that is not enough – for a woman; such a woman as I am. Will they not, Monsieur Sucatash?”

“Kill who?”

He knew the answer, though, before she spoke: “Louisiana!”

Shocked, he ventured a feeble remonstrance.

“He’s your husband, ma’am!”

But this drove her to a wild outburst in startling contrast to her former quiescence.

“My husband! Yes, my husband who has defiled me as no other on earth could have soiled and degraded me! My husband! Oh, he shall be killed if I must sell myself body and soul to the man who shoots him down!”

Then she whirled on him.

“Monsieur Sucatash! You have said to me that you liked me. Maybe indeed, you have loved me a little! Well, if you will kill that man for me – you may have me!”

Sucatash groaned, staring at her as though fascinated. She threw back her head, turning to him, her face upraised. The sweetly curved lips were half parted, showing little white teeth. On the satin cheeks a spot of pink showed. The lids were drooping over the deep eyes, veiling them, hiding all but a hint of the mystery and beauty behind them.

“Am I not worth a man’s life?” she murmured.

“You’re worth a dozen murders and any number of other crimes,” said Sucatash gruffly. He turned his head away. “But you got me wrong. If he was what you think, I’d smoke him up in a minute and you’d not owe me a thing. But, ma’am, I know better’n you do how you really feel. You think you want him killed – but you don’t.”

Solange abruptly straightened round and rode ahead without another word. Morosely, Sucatash followed.

They came into the cañon at last and turned downward toward the spot where camp had been pitched that day, which seemed so long ago, and yet was not yet a week in the past. Snow was falling, clouding the air with a baffling mist, but they could see, dotted everywhere along the sides of the cañon, the flickering fires where the miners had camped on their claims. Around them came the muffled voices of men, free with profanity. Here and there the shadow of a tent loomed up, or a more solid bulk spoke of roughly built shacks of logs and canvas. Faint laughter and, once or twice, the sound of loud quarreling was heard. It all seemed weirdly unreal and remote as though they rode through an alien, fourth dimensional world with which they had no connection. The snow crunched softly under the feet of the horses.

But as they progressed, the houses or shacks grew thicker until it appeared that they were traversing the rough semblance of a street. Mud sloshed under the hoofs of the horses instead of snow, and a black ribbon of it stretched ahead of them. Mistily on the sides loomed dimly lighted canvas walls or dark hulks of logs. The sound of voices was more frequent and insistent down here, though most of it seemed to come from some place ahead.

In the hope that she would push on through the camp Sucatash followed the girl. They came at last to a long, dim bulk, glowing with light from a height of about six feet and black below that level. From this place surged a raucous din of voices, cursing, singing and quarreling. A squeaky fiddle and a mandolin uttered dimly heard notes which were tossed about in the greater turmoil. Stamping feet made a continuous sound, curiously muffled.

“What is this?” said Solange, drawing rein before the place.

“Ma’am, you better come along,” replied Sucatash. “I reckon the bootleggers and gamblers have run in a load of poison and started a honkatonk. If that’s it, this here dive is sure no place for peaceable folks like us at this time o’ night.”

“But it is here that these desperate men who will kill may be found, is it not?” Solange asked.

“You can sure find ’em as bad as you want ’em, in there. But you can’t go in there, ma’am! My God! That place is hell!”

“Then it is the place for me,” said Solange. She swung down from her horse and walked calmly to the dimly outlined canvas door, swung it back and stepped inside.