Sudden Goldseeker

Sudden Goldseeker

Oliver Strange

*

Chapter I

"You meanin' to call me a liar'?" The voice was high-pitched, immature, but it carried an underlying threat of violence. The speaker, a lanky boy of twenty, dressed in the rough garb of the frontier, stood glowering at the man who had dared to doubt him. This was an older fellow, more than twice his age, with a gnarled face upon which the challenge evoked a disarming grin.

"Aw, Tim, I got drunk with yore dad the day you was born," he said, and the roar of laughter which followed the naive confession relieved the tension. "All I'm sayin' is, if the stuff is there, why are you here?"

"I'll tell you, Preedy," the boy replied. "I come back to get the fixin's--tools, supplies, an' help--it ain't no one-man proposition."

"I'll say it ain't," another agreed. "The scum o' the country'll be there."

"We'll be sorry to lose you, Dabbs," the saloon-keeper said gravely. "You did oughta buy a farewell round." His chuckle started another burst of merriment, in which, after a moment's hesitation, the victim joined.

"That's a good idea," he grinned. "Set 'em up, ol'-timer, an' charge 'em to me." The landlord's cheery face fell--Dabbs was already in debt to him, and the Pioneer Saloon--though the only one in the settlement--was hardly a gold-mine. However, he had brought it on himself, and with dexterous turns of the wrist he sent glasses spinning along the bar, one stopping before each customer. The bottle followed, gyrating dizzily until it reached the end of the line; the thirsty ones poured and passed it. The trick produced the applause the performer expected.

"Never seen it done so slick," Preedy commented. "Reg'lar bloomin' conjurer, of Bixby."

"He'll shore have to be to git the coin outa Dabbs," his neighbour grinned.

The founder of the feast heard the remark and joined in the grin. "I'll pay him when I come back with the other scum from the Black Hills," he said.

Some months previously vague rumours of gold discoveries in Dakota had come to Wayside and a few of the more optimistic of the settlers had departed westwards. When no news of them arrived, those who had remained behind nodded knowingly and mentally patted themselves on the back. The reappearance of young Welder, the blacksmith's son, had revived the excitement and though it was not yet noon, brought every male in the place to the saloon, the common centre for the receipt and distribution of news. Sceptical as some of them might be, the boy's story had aroused the appetite, dormant in every human, for easily-gotten gains.

"What do you think o' this, Welder?" the saloon-keeper asked the blacksmith.

"I'm stayin' put," was the reply. "Tim is gain' back an' I'm stakin' him. He sez it's good."

"Good?" the youth echoed. "It'll be the '49 over again."

"Huh! What you know o' the '49? You warn't pupped then." The interruption came from a small man whose white hair and beard lent an appearance of age which the black eyes beneath the bushy bleached eyebrows, and the activity of his spare form, belied. His shrill cracked tones contained a jeer which brought a flush to young Welder's face.

"Mebbe not, Snowy, but I've heard of it," he replied.

The little man cackled derisively. "Yeah, from fellas who was never within five hundred miles o' California," he sneered. "If you wanta know 'bout them days, come to me, son; I was there, from start to finish. Gold? the place was lousy with it. Why, you could pull up a tuft o' grass an' shake the yeller stuff outa the roots in the pan. One fella I knowed cleaned up fifteen thousand dollars in less'n a fortnight just doin' that, an' the men who washed the ground he was too lazy to put a shovel into got five times as much."

"That was when you made yore pile, Snowy, eh?" a listener put in slyly.

The prospector whirled on him. "Pile?" he shrilled. "I made three, an' spent 'em--what else is gold for? an' I'll make another when I'm good an' ready." They laughed at this, for Snowy--regarded as a little mad--was the butt of the settlement. Nothing was known of him, not even his real name. He did no work, and disappeared at intervals for months, but always had money for liquor, of which he consumed an inordinate quantity. He was reputed to possess a secret hoard, but all attempts to trail him on his excursions had proved futile, and a search of the dug-out in which he lived revealed only the sordid poverty of its interior.

"I heard Deadwood is getting to be a biggish place."This from a tall, dark man, not yet forty, with a sallow, thin face, aquiline nose, and slumberous eyes, in which lurked a cold passion. His long-skirted black coat, "boiled shirt," and neatly tied cravat might have been worn by a minister, lawyer, 'or card-sharp, and the fact that his hands were carefully tended pointed to the latter. So Wayside guessed and missed the mark only by a little, for although Paul Lesurge--thus he named himself--was not a professional gambler in the Western sense of the term, he was an adventurer, willing to take a chance in any enterprise which promised profit, and utterly indifferent as to the means by which that profit was to be obtained.

Suave, confident, able to cloak his callous nature with a thin veneer of culture, he had already, in the two weeks of his stay, impressed Wayside with a sense of his superiority.

His remark, in effect a question, was addressed to young Welder, and appeared to embarrass him. He had not visited Deadwood; in fact, he had but penetrated a few miles into Dakota and knew little more about it than his hearers; all the information he had so boastfully retailed respecting the diggings had been obtained from others who claimed to have been there. This "slick stranger"--as he inwardly dubbed him --had guessed it.

"I didn't get so fur," he said sulkily. "When I see how things was I hit the home trail pretty lively; no use agoin' on without tools an' the rest of it."

"Cripes, you don't want no tools to pull up grass roots," bantered a boy of about his own age. "I'm bettin' you never see any gold-dust." Tim flushed again, hesitated, and then burst out angrily, "Didn't, eh? What d'you make o' that?" Thrusting a hand into a pocket he flung something on a nearby table. It proved to be a small doeskin sack which many of them knew to be a miner's "poke." Snowy elbowed his way through the jostling crowd and snatched up the bag, hefting it in his hand.

"Three ounces, near enough," he decided, and with a grin added, "O' course, it might be brass filin's." The ruse was successful. "Open it," the owner said savagely. "S'pose you do know gold when you see it?"

"Boy, I've handled more than you'll ever live to put yore peepers on," Snowy boasted.

With trembling fingers he untwisted the thong which closed the mouth of the "poke" and, cupping one palm, tipped out a little of the contents. There it lay, a tiny mound of shining particles, glittering in the sunshlne which filtered through the grimy window of the saloon. A feverish excitement burned in the old man's eyes as he almost caressingly touched the yellow heap.

"It's gold, shore as shootin'," he murmured hoarsely. "The on'y thing that makes life worth livin'."

"Waal, it'll certainly buy most anythin'," drawled one of the bystanders.

Snowy looked at him disgustedly. "Who the hell cares what it'll buy?" he snorted. "It's just searchin' for an' findin' it. Yes, gents, game-huntin', woman-huntin', an' man-huntin'--I've tried 'em all, but going after gold has 'em skinned. You can get tired o' the others but once catch the gold-fever an' it'll never leave you." He poured the dust back into the bag and passed it to the owner. "I reckon you ain't tellin' us where you got it," he said dryly.

Welder looked at him suspiciously. Did the hoary-headed old madman divine that he had not even gone as far as the diggings and that his specimen ounces had been won at poker? He decided it was not possible.

"Would you?" he retorted. "All I'm sayin' is that there's plenty more where that came from." Snowy chuckled. "You think you know it all," he said. "Wait till the stuff has served you as many dirty tricks as it has me an' you won't be so brash." The chatter continued, incessant, still on the one topic. The sight of that pinch of dust had fired the imagination of the younger men and stirred the memories of the older. Stories of past gold booms were retailed and listened to eagerly.

The only member of the company who seemed to be unaffected by the excitement was a young, black-haired cowboy, who, leaning lazily against the bar with one high heel negligently hooked in the foot-rail, regarded the scene with amused indifference. He too was a stranger to Wayside, having ridden in on a big black horse, which he called "Nigger" and appeared to value highly, a week earlier; so far, he had neglected to state his business.

He had not been asked to do so. The tall, lean, but wide-shouldered supple frame, firm jaw, deeply tanned face and level grey-blue eyes did not suggest that liberties might be taken, especially when reinforced by a brace of six-shooters, hung low, the holsters tied with rawhide strips to the leathern chaps. He had given only a name--James Green, and in those days, that meant just nothing at all. Wayside wondered, but in silence. The saloon-keeper spoke to him.

"Gone loco--the whole bilin'," he said. "You'd guess they'd never seen a bit o' gold before, wouldn't you?" A glint of a smile softened the hard lines of the cowboy's features. "They certainly seem some flustered--liable to stampede any moment," he returned, and then, "Why is it that easy money is so much more attractive than coin yu earn?"

"I pass," Bixby replied. "But if you think minin' means easy money you got another guess comin'. Now you tell me this: why is it that a fella can never keep coin he gets easy?"

"I pass too," the cowboy smiled, adding reflectively, "That ol' mosshead is shorely gettin' this herd on the run; yo're liable to lose trade."

"An' it's bad enough a'ready--if it gets wuss I'll have to pack an' follow my custom," Bixby grunted, and emboldened by the visitor's apparent friendliness, "You thinkin' o' joinin' the nugget-hunters?" The question was a flagrant breach of Western etiquette, as the saloon-keeper was well aware, but the other did not resent it.

"Why, I ain't made any plans--yet," he drawled. "Fact is, I'm lookin' for a coupla fellows an' Deadwood might be a likely place."

"Friends o' yores, mebbe," Bixby ventured.

The cowboy's expression hardened, and his eyes grew bleak. "I'll be pleased to see them," he said, so grimly that the saloonkeeper did not pursue the topic.

A moment later a tousle-headed youngster flung himself from the bare back of a sweating pony, thrust open the swing-door of the saloon and yelled:

"Stage is a-comin'--there's a gal aboard--a pretty gal--an' ol' Three-finger Ike is sober." Wayside, lying well south of the main Overland Trail to the West and forty miles from the nearest settlement, was difficult of access. Most of its visitors arrived by freight-wagon or on horseback rather than wait for the stagecoach, which, at intervals of weeks, called there on its way to northern Kansas. The arrival of the vehicle was an event and always a sufficient excuse for the male population to gather at the Pioneer.

A shrill whoop emptied the bar like magic, even the indifferent young cowboy joining the group outside. From a billowing cloud of dust the unwieldy conveyance, drawn by six scampering mules, emerged, and with a final crack of the long-lashed whip the driver pulled them to a stop, set his brake, looped the reins over the iron hook at his side, and climbed clumsily down from his perch.

"Howdy, folks," he boomed, a hen came the customary query and invariable answer which had earned him his nickname. "Waal, Bixby, I don't mind if I do; just three fingers." Then, in answer to a question:

"Yeah, I got a lady passenger--sweet gal too, travellin' alone, an' I had to hobble my tongue some. Reckon them mules got notions at first, but that whip o' mine speaks mighty plain."

"Didn't figure on seem' you, Ike," Bixby remarked. "Shore reckoned you'd be streakin' for the new goldfields."

"Plenty is--the Overland is black with 'em," the stagedriver replied. "I'm stayin' with my job; she pays steady wages an' I like my meals reg'lar."

"By all accounts, it's a rich strike," Preedy put in.

"Hell, did you ever hear o' one that warn't--at first?" Ike said. "'Sides, the Black Hills is Injun country--Sioux at that; I ain't goin' to resk my scalp." A cackle of mirth greeted the remark, for most of those present knew that the speaker's cranium had no more hair than an egg.

Meanwhile the occupants of the coach had alighted, glad to leave the cramped, uncomfortable conveyance in which they had jolted and bumped over interminable miles of rough trail.

They presented a curious contrast. The first to emerge was a square, stocky man in the thirties, with enormous shoulders, long arms, and coarse, bloated features upon which a scowl seemed to be the natural expression. A straggling black moustache only accentuated the cruel lines of his mouth. His garb was that of the country, shirt open at the throat, disclosing a hairy chest, trousers stuffed into boot-tops, coat slung over one arm, and a heavy revolver strapped about his middle. Altogether, Wayside summed up, an ugly-looking customer.

He was followed by a tall, slim cowboy whose plump, youthful face and frank brown eyes were those of one who had nothing to hide. Battered Stetson in hand, he held open the door for the third passenger, whose appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration.

"Three-finger may be able to describe mules pretty good but females is out of his class," one of the older inhabitants remarked disdainfully. "'Sweet' don't begin to tell about her." And, in truth, stepping down from the drab, clumsy vehicle, the girl--she appeared to be still in her 'teens--made a charming picture. Her simple black gown set off the slimness of her young body, and beneath the broad brim of a soft felt hat,short curly hair of the palest gold peeped out. The deep blue eyes were wide-spaced, the nose short and straight, the mouth firm.

At the moment she was evidently weary, and somewhat disturbed by the interest she was creating. Nevertheless, she ::anked the cowboy and turned to smile bravely at the onlookers, half of whom immediately became her slaves, eager to serve her. But while they were thinking about it, Paul Lesurge acted. Three quick strides and he was before her, bowing, hat in hand.

"Let me be the first to welcome you to Wayside, ma'am," he said. "If I can be of any service to you, please command me. I am Paul Lesurge." The name, of course, conveyed nothing to her, but his respectful manner and the contrast of his appearance with that of the other citizens produced the effect he intended. Her eyes studied him steadily for a moment, and then she smiled, holding out a slim hand.

"It is very kind of you, sir," she said. "My name is Mary Ducane, and my business here--"

"Must certainly wait until you have washed and rested," he interposed quickly. "You see, I know what a journey by stage means."

"I do feel--grubby," she confessed.

"You don't look it," he told her, so warmly that she flushed a little. "Now, let me take you to our one hotel; it is rough, but the woman who runs it is clean and capable, and will look after you. Is that your baggage?" He pointed to a leather grip which the tall cowboy was holding, evidently waiting for the conversation to finish. His good-humoured face was now disfigured with a frown which deepened when--the girl having nodded her pretty head--the interfering stranger calmly relieved him of his burden, saying:

"I'll take charge of that, my friend." The impudence of the act proved too much for the cowboy's control. With a threatening gesture towards the gun on his hip he blurted out:

"Yu make friends mighty rapid, mister, don't yu? What right yu got to head in thisaway?" The older man surveyed him with cool disdain. "Gentlemen do not quarrel in the presence of a lady," he chided. "We will discuss the matter later, if you please." Which grandiloquent reply, as the speaker knew well, only added fuel to the fire of resentment already burning in the young man's breast. It was the girl who averted the storm.

"Thank you for your kindness and attention on the journey," she said, holding out her hand.

The cowboy's face became a picture of discomfort. "It ain't worth mentionin'," he managed to say, and then, as his big paw engulfed her fingers, "Any time yu need help I'll come a-runnin'. " I'm shore obliged," she smiled, mimicking his own manner of speech. "But you mustn't be angry with others who wish to aid me." He watched as they went along the rude board sidewalk, his heart in his eyes, and a curse on his lips as he saw the man who had so neatly cut him out stand aside to let his companion enter Wayside's one hotel. A jeering, familiar voice brought him back to earth, and he turned to find the third passenger.

"Well, cowboy, that dame is certainly a fast worker," the fellow grinned. "We was gettin' along first-rate till you joined the 'jerky' an' then I got the glass eye. Now it's yore turn, but she won't shake Paul that easy."

"Yu know that man?" the cowboy asked.

"Know Paul Lesurge? I'll say I do," was the reply. "Why, I'm here to meet him--we're like brothers, me an' Paul. He's a great fella, an' style?--well, you seen for yoreself." He laughed evilly. "So you can say good-bye to yore Lulu, cowboy, 'less yo're willin' to take Paul's leavin's"

"Shut yore rank mouth, yu toad," the young fellow flamed out, "or I'll close it for yu." The short man grinned provokingly--he was of the type who would tease a tied dog--and he did not believe this raw youth to be dangerous.

"Serious, was you?" he fleered. "Well, she's a pretty piece, an' I could be that myself for mebbe a month, an' then He was not allowed to finish. Two long steps brought the cowboy within reach and his right fist flashed out to the jaw. There was no science in the blow, but it had all the power of a muscular young body behind it and the fury of one who was seething with rage. Entirely unprepared, the ruffian rocked on his heels and then crashed to the ground; he might have been kicked by a mule. Standing over him, pale with passion, the boy had a last word:

"Mention that young lady again in my hearin' an' I'll tear yu apart." He turned to walk away and in an instant the stricken man was on his feet, his gun out, pointing at the broad back so carelessly presented to him. A movement of his finger andthe murderous missile would have sped, but a warning voice intervened:

"I wouldn't," it said. Though the words were quietly spoken, they conveyed a threat which the killer dared not ignore.

The man with the gun stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw a group of citizens interestedly watching the fracas, and apart from them, a black-haired cowboy, lounging easily against a post some ten paces distant, a six-shooter levelled from his right hip. A tiny tendril of smoke curled up from the cigarette between his lips.

"Face me," came the order. "I never shoot a fella in the back unless I has to."

"What right you got to interfere?" the other blustered, but he made the movement.

There was no mirth in the cowboy's grin. "Yu've got yore gun out an' it's just about as far from yu to me as from me to you," he said. "If yu wanta argue ..." The bully had no such wish; he did not like the look of this third party in the affair. Though he was little older in years than the other cowboy, there was an air of cool confidence about this one which spoke of experience. He did not know it, but the spectators were in agreement with him; this sinister, granite-faced figure was entirely different from the smiling, good-humoured puncher they had swapped jokes with in the saloon.

"I ain't got no quarrel with you," the squat man evaded. "No, I'm facin' yu," came the swift retort, and then, "Well, we aim to please." The other cowboy had turned and watched the scene with an interest natural in one who had escaped death by the merest chance. He now came striding back. The black-haired one grinned at him.

"Pull yore gun an' stand right here," he said, pointing to the post he had been using as a support, and when this had been done, he stepped aside. "All set, Angel-face," he went on. "Here's the fella yo're honin' to slay. Fly at it." This invitation seemed no more to the liking of the short man than the previous one. He shrugged his enormous shoulders and managed to achieve a heavy sneer.

"Play-actin'," he said. "Dime novel stuff. I'll argue with both o' you when yo're growed up." He put away the drawn gun, thrust his hands into his pockets, and slouched away. The black-haired cowboy's voice followed him:

"Yella right through, like I figured," he said, and shook a finger at the man he had assisted. "Don't yu give him another chance like that."

"It was shorely a fool thing to do," the other confessed. "I reckon I have to thank yu--"

"Yu don't have to do no such thing," was the smiling reply. "Let's get acquainted. I'm Jim Green. I live mostly under my hat, an' I ain't got a friend in the world."

"I hate to call yu a liar so soon but I know of one, anyways," the boy grinned, and shoved out a fist. "I'm Gerry Mason. All my relations died off on me, I got tired punchin' cows, an' here I am. I guessed I'd grab me a gold-mine."

"Why, that's one good idea," Green responded, as if the notion was entirely novel. "I'm foot-loose my own self just now."

"We might double-team it," Mason said eagerly, "that is, if--"

"Yu decide to go," the other helped him out. He had divined the possible obstacle which had quelled the boy's enthusiasm --a certain slim, black-robed form. "There ain't no need for haste. We'll have to fix things." The statement brought a look of relief to Mason's face, and Green smiled understandingly; if the girl remained in Wayside, he would lose his new friend, for he himself must be moving on.

Chapter II

When Mary Ducane, having removed the dust of travel from her person, came downstairs again, she found a meal and Paul Lesurge awaiting her in the parlour of the hotel. His eyes regarded the healthy freshness of her with discreet approval.

"You must be in need of something, and as I am a fellow guest here, I hope you won't mind if we eat together," he said.

Mary did not mind, and said so. She was feeling very lonely in this far-off spot on the plains, and the stranger's solicitude for her comfort was welcome. He was, too, a new experience, for though her life had been spent among rough, uncultured people, she had all a woman's appetite for the niceties of existence. And Lesurge was far too astute to allow the least suggestion of gallantry to appear.

They spoke seldom until the business of feeding was over,but he gathered that she was alone in the world save for an uncle whom she had come to Wayside to find. Lesurge started to his feet.

"But how stupid of me to bring you here," he cried. "We should have gone in search of your relative at once." His contrition was so very evident that any lurking doubt the girl may have entertained, vanished, and she hastened to explain the situation.

"My uncle does not know I am coming, and may even have left Wayside. He was my father's brother and came West long before I was born. Dad used to say, 'Phil was the restless one.'"

"But you have seen him?" Lesurge asked.

Mary shook her head. "He never visited us, and for years we heard nothing. Then, about seven months ago, a letter came, saying that he had discovered a rich mine and asking my father to join him. Dad decided to do so, sold our farm, and then ..." Her voice broke and her eyes became misty.

Lesurge nodded sympathetically. "I understand," he murmured. "He died."

"He was--murdered," she said bitterly. "Stabbed in the dark on his way home; it was known he had sold his land--poor Dad could never keep a secret--and I suppose they were after the money."

"I hope they didn't get it."

"No. It was in the bank, but when everything was settled up there was little more than enough to bring me here, so"--she smiled bravely--"I shall have to find my uncle, or some work. You have not heard the name?"

"No, but I have been here but a little while myself, and there are outlying settlers I may not have come in contact with. I will make inquiries at once. Of course, it is possible he is not using his own name, but we won't anticipate difficulty." He saw a tiny crease in her smooth forehead, and asked, "Anything else troubling you?"

"I was wondering if I left Mister Mason rather abruptly--the young cowboy who was holding my bag," she explained. "He was very kind during the journey, he protected me ..."

"Protected you?" Lesurge repeated.

"Yes, the other passenger was--unpleasant," she replied. "I should not like to be deemed ungrateful."

"I'll put that right," he assured her. "Naturally you were a little flustered. These cowboys have pretty tough hides, anyway. As for the other fellow, I'll have a word with him too; you won't have any more trouble in that quarter, I promise 'ou " He cut short her thanks with a wave of the hand. Then, raving suggested that it would be best to keep her affairs to herself for the present, he went out to find Philip Ducane. A ew paces from the hotel he met the "unpleasant" passenger, vho greeted him with a scowl; he had been at the bottle again. "Hell of a time yore friends have to wait for you when here's a skirt around," he growled.

Lesurge surveyed him with cool contempt. "If you weren't trunk you wouldn't have the presumption to refer to me as a friend," he said bitingly. "Get this; you are merely a tool [ use, and throw away if it proves inefficient. I learn that you nade yourself `unpleasant' to Miss Ducane on the way here. [f that happens again, I shall make myself `unpleasant' to (ou" A sudden thought occurred to him. "You haven't told anyone here that you know me?" He saw the lie on the other's lip. "You would. Of all the blundering blockheads ... I suppose the whole town knows?"

"I on'y mentioned it to that cowpunch fella, Mason, what come with us," the man grumbled.

"And he'll pass it on to the girl, of course," Lesurge said disgustedly. "Well, we must deal with him. Didn't you tell me that Miss Ducane's father--died?"

"So he did," Fagan replied.

"Yes, a man is apt to with four inches of steel in his throat," Paul said acidly, and caught the furtive look of fear in the other's eyes. That was good; he liked to have a hold over those he employed; it lessened the risk.

"She talked then," Fagan ventured.

"Quite a lot," was the meaning reply. "What was her father like?"

"Short, dark fella, goin' grey, with a scar over the left eye--claimed he got it fallin' off a fence. No snap to him, but middlin' chattersome. Farmed a quarter section but I don't reckon he made much."

"What was his name? The girl only referred to him as `Dad..' "

"George, but he was generally knowed as `Squint'--him bein' a bit cross-eyed."

"Excellent. Well, I've been busy here trying to get on the track of Philip Ducane. I think I've talked with every man within ten miles of this place but no one appears to have heard of anyone who might be the fellow, which is fortunate for us." Fagan's face expressed astonishment. "You got me guessin'," he admitted.

"That surprises me, of course," was the sarcastic rejoinder. "Obviously, since the real uncle is missing, we must supply one--can't let a lady travel all this way to be disappointed, can we? She has never seen this relative, and with the facts you found out and what she let slip to me, we can prime our man so that he'll pass muster. The only difficulty is to find a person to play the part."

"Seems a lot o' trouble," Fagan objected. "If she's got the letter tellin' how to find the mine, that's all we want."

"Unfortunately, the matter is not nearly so simple, owing to the fact that the letter no longer exists. Ducane apparently considered there was risk and destroyed it, he and the girl first committing the important part to memory. That's why you didn't find it on the body."

"I tell you I

"Don't trouble; for a rogue you're the poorest liar I ever met," Lesurge interrupted. "Anyway, the past is done with; we have to deal with the future. Where can we find our man? He must be about the right age, devoid of scruples, and know a great deal about gold-mining--by heaven! I've got it--Snowy."

"That lyin' of soak I see in the saloon?" Fagan gibed. "Why, he's on'y a half-wit."

"And at that he'll have more sense than you." The brutal retort pierced even the calloused consciousness of the man to whom it was directed.

"See here, Paul," he protested. "You've been handlin' me pretty rough with that tongue o' yores; I expect to be treated like a 'uman bein', not the mat you wipe your boots on. Don't forget I put you up to this racket."

"Because you couldn't handle it yourself."

"Mebbe, but if I choose to chatter ... " For an instant the other lost control and his usually placid features were distorted by a venomous fury before which Fagan, hard-boiled as he was, quailed.

"I'm boss, and I'll treat you as I please," Lesurge gritted. "Double-cross me and I'll make this world so hot for you that you'll shiver when you land in hell. It's been tried, and by cleverer men, and you know what happened to them." The spate of passion went as quickly as it had come and the mask was back. "Don't be a fool, Fagan. If Ducane told the truth, this is the biggest thing I have ever attempted; success should put us on Easy Street for life. Think of it, you'll be able to live--I should say--spend, like a gentleman." The ruffian did not resent the bitter gibe; the prospect of gain was alluring, and moreover, he knew the fiendish nature of this man and feared him. Paul Lesurge had an evil reputation among his "friends."

"What d'you want me to do?" he asked, submissively enough.

"Get hold of that cowboy, Mason, and find out how much the girl has told him." Fagan looked uncomfortable. "Him an' me ain't on the best o' terms--he got uppity on the journey, over the gal--an' we had a ruckus." Knowing that the other man must hear of it, he told the story, his own way. "Took me unawares, blast his soul, an' if the other guy hadn't sat in, we wouldn't have had to trouble about Mister Mason," he concluded vindictively.

Lesurge took the news calmly. "It's a pity," he said.

"Shore is," Fagan agreed. "I'd 'a' blowed him to bits."

"I wasn't meaning that, but you may be right," was the reply. "Well, it can't be helped; I'll tackle Mason myself. That other cowboy may prove troublesome too; an awkward customer, I fancy."

"Huh! there's allus one way."

"Yes. Did you notice the butts of his guns?"

"Keeps his tally on 'em, eh?"

"If he did I wouldn't think twice about him," Lesurge said. "He's a stranger and doesn't seem to have any business here."

"Them cow-wrastlers drifts around considerable."

"True, and we shall be on the move ourselves soon and quit of them both." In which Paul Lesurge, for once in his life, was wrong.

* * * Snowy possessed the doubtful distinction of owning the most dilapidated dug-out in Wayside. Here, seated on rude stools, with the remains of a bottle of whisky--brought by the visitor--between them, Paul Lesurge and the tenant of the dug-out were conversing.

"Well, that's the position," Paul said. "What do you think of it?" Snowy considered for a while, sucking at a very excellent cigar with which he had been provided. His dull eyes and hesitant articulation showed that he had not neglected the liquid part of the entertainment. He shook his head.

"Seems kind o' tough to ring in a stranger on the gal," he offered. "A nice-appearin' lass, too."

"It will be doing her a service," Lesurge pointed out. "I've searched all over and this Ducane fellow hasn't been heard of. What is she to do out here all alone, and with no money? But with us to help her . .." His alert mind forestalled the next question. "You see, she wouldn't trust strangers with what she regards as her uncle's secret."

"That's so," the other agreed. "But she'll expect me to know where thisyer mine is."

"You have had an illness and it has left lapses in your memory," Lesurge explained. "You'll remember just enough about your father to gain her confidence--I can put you wise to that." The old man nodded approvingly. "I call that cute," he said. "You got this all figured out, mister. How d'you hear 'bout her daddy bein' bumped off?"

"Miss Ducane told me."

"I reckon he opened his mouth too wide," Snowy reflected, and his eyes grew cunning. "Hadn't thought o' that; them as got him might wanta get his brother too. I ain't honin' to pass out." Lesurge smiled; the old devil was playing for better terms, therefore he meant to come in. "We'll take care of you," he assured. "We have to--you'll be our big card. Think of it, man; you'll have more gold than you could spend in another lifetime, gold to play with, gold to throw away." The wizard word brought a fanatic gleam in the prospector's half-shut eyes. "Gold--beautiful red gold," he mumbled, and then, "If we make good, what about the gal?"

"She'll get her fair share, one-fourth, of course," was the reply. "That's fair, I think, eh?" The old man's assent was reluctant. "Shore, but it'll be a lot o' coin for a gal," he muttered.

"Well, perhaps we can come to some arrangement," Lesurge said. "I take it you're willing to join us?" Snowy snatched up the bottle. "Here's life an' luck to Philip Ducane, seein' I'm to be him," he cried, and tipped the raw spirit down his throat.

The reckless act evidently spurred the younger man's memory. "That's one of the things you'll have to lay off a bit," he warned. "I won't stand for drunken babblers."

"See here, mister," Snowy said thickly. "I run away from home as a boy because I wouldn't take orders, I never have took 'em, an' I ain't goin' to start now. You come to me, I didn't come to you. Pin that in yore hat an' take a peek at it times you feel too brash." Lesurge bit his lip, inwardly promising himself that he would get even with the cantankerous old crook. But for the moment he must temporize.

"I'm not giving orders, merely a piece of advice," he said quietly. "And here's another: clean yourself up a bit--the girl won't want to be ashamed of her relative. All I'm asking you to remember is that a pile of money is at stake."

"When d'you aim to break the glad tidin's?" Snowy asked, a suspicion of a jeer in his tone.

"In the morning, but I'll see you first and prime you in readiness. Good-night." Holding on to his rickety door, the old man watched him go, a grin of derision upon his unwashed features. Then he grabbed the bottle, ruefully regarded the small quantity remaining, drained, and flung it after the disappearing form of his visitor.

"To hell with you an' yore advice, Mister Lesurge," he said shrilly. "I'll do as I damn please, but--I'm agoin' to get that gold, an' I ain't trustin' you--no, sir, you got a mean eye an' yore neck looks like it oughta have a rope round it." He dived again into his abode and the Pioneer Saloon missed his custom that night. But it had that of Fagan, who made up for it so completely that Lesurge was moved to caustic comment:

"With two drunkards to help me I have a fine chance of putting over a big deal." Drink affects men in different ways; some it makes merry and genial; others, ill-tempered and pugnacious; Fagan was of the latter type.

"How long you been a blue-ribboner?" he growled. "I've seen you lit up off'n enough." Paul Lesurge shrugged his shoulders. "I shall want you in the morning. If you are not sober I shall not want you--any more. You understand?" The cold, cutting tone and the plain threat brought Fagan to his senses. With a nod of comprehension, he pushed his glass away and stumbled out of the bar. He could not afford to quarrel with Paul Lesurge--yet, but deep in his mean little soul he hated this man so superior to himself, who never neglected an opportunity to vent upon him his vitriolic spleen.

With a sneering smile of satisfaction, Lesurge moved along the bar to where the two cowboys were standing.

"Oh, Mason, I want to thank you for assisting Miss Ducaneon the journey here," he began easily. "What actually happened?" The cowboy gazed at him with steady but hostile eyes; he did not like this well-dressed, good-looking stranger who had spirited his travelling companion away, and he resented the patronizing air.

"Yu'd better ask the fella who's just gone out," he replied. "Claims he's a. friend o' yores."

"I have employed him at times, but a friend, hardly," Paul explained. "As regards Miss Ducane, I do not think he will offend again. I--mentioned it."

"I had a word with him my own self," Mason said grimly. "Yu don't happen to be the uncle Miss Ducane come in search of, do yu?" The two-edged implication that he was either an old man or an interfering busybody brought a flush of anger even to the adventurer's impassive face, but he masked his emotion and replied coolly:

"I happen to know him, and I shall have the pleasure of bringing them together to-morrow morning." He reaped his revenge in full when he saw the crestfallen look on the boy's face; Lesurge had done what he had been hoping to do and the girl would no longer have any need of his help or protection.

"That let's you out," the other went on. "With her uncle and myself, the little lady will be well looked after." Having thus twisted the knife in the wound he strolled away. Mason looked at his companion.

"Jim," he said. "Did yu ever wanta take a fella by the throat an' slowly squeeze the life out'n him?"

"Mustn't let angry li'l tempers rise, of timer; it's a serious matter to take a human life."

"Who was talking o' that?" Mason retorted.

The other's eyes twinkled. "I gotta admit he does look awful like a skunk," he said.

Chapter III

Wayside had a shock on the following morning when it saw Paul Lesurge, accompanied by the man it knew as Snowy, enter the hotel. But it was not the Snowy they were familiar with; this one had hair and beard trimmed to respectable proportions, and his shirt was clean. The girl, forewarned, was awaiting them in the little parlour. She rose as the two men entered. Lesurge effected a simple introduction:

"Miss Ducane, this is your father's brother, Philip." For some moments they studied each other in silence, this slim, grave-eyed girl and the white-haired, wizened old man. It was the latter who spoke first.

"So you are George's little lass, eh?" he said, and the high-pitched voice was gentle. "You favour yore mother." Her face lighted up. "You knew her, sir?" she asked eagerly.

Snowy nodded. "She was a bonny gal--I never seen a purtier --till now," he added, with a little smile. "Must be twenty-five year ago--las' time I went East. I wanted George to jine me, but he'd just married an' bought that land at Dent's Crossing. Allus the plodder, George; I was the rollin' stone." Her eyes were moist. "And when he would have come ..."

"Paul told me," Snowy said sadly. "Pore of Squint--I expect they still called him that?"

"Yes, but he didn't mind."

"Got used to it, I reckon; but when I christened him that at school he gave me a fine hidin'. But he thought a lot o' me, George did, an' even when I near knocked his left eye out with a hoe he told Dad he fell off'n a fence to save me. Why didn't he answer my letter?"

"But he did," she protested. "A few weeks before he--died, he wrote saying he was selling the farm and coming to join you here." Snowy shook his head. "Guess it got lost, mails bein' as uncertain as females in these parts." He chuckled at his little joke. Unnoticed by the girl, Lesurge had tapped his own forehead. "Or mebbe I disremembered," he went on. "You see, my dear, some years back I had a bad sickness an' since then my memory plays me pranks. Times I even forget--" a warning shake of the head from the other man pulled him up--"my own name. I'm 'mowed here as Snowy, 'count o' my white hair. Some folks figure I'm loco, but you know that ain't so, don't you, Paul?"

"Of course, Phil," Lesurge smiled. "It's just jealousy, because you have seen so much more of the world." In an undertone to the girl, he added, "He's a bit eccentric, especially when his memory fails, and the ignorant settlers here have but one explanation for that, but he's quite harmless."

"I'm sure of it," Mary said warmly. "I must try and make up to him for all he has suffered. I can never be sufficientlygrateful to you for discovering my uncle; it solves all my difficulties, and I might never have found him." The feeling in her low sweet voice stirred the man's cold pulses and brought an eager gleam into his dark eyes.

"It will always be a pleasure to serve you," he replied. "I am taking Phil away now, but we'll meet again this afternoon and discuss plans." Outside the hotel the old man glanced at his companion and slyly asked, "How'd I do it?"

"Wonderfully," Lesurge told him, and meant it. "A fine actor was lost in you, Snowy."

"Ah, I got brains, I has," came the complacent answer. "You reckon she swallowed it?"

"Hook, line and sinker," Paul assured him. "How do you know she resembles her mother?" o "I don't," Snowy smirked, "but most gals like to think so." At the Pioneer the prospector found himself a popular person. Not only was he the uncle of the most charming visitor Wayside had ever received but he owned a fabulously rich gold-mine; Fagan had talked to some purpose. Never in Snowy's sinful life had so much free whisky been offered to him and he was preparing to enjoy himself thoroughly when Lesurge intervened; a liquor-loosened tongue might well wreck his plans.

"No more now, Phil," he said firmly. "You have business to talk over with Mary presently." Two of the company watched him follow Lesurge out of the saloon with unbelieving eyes.

"That of skeezicks her uncle?" Mason ejaculated contemptuously. "The whale what found a home for Jonah couldn't 'a' swallowed that."

"I'm allowin' Jonah must 'a' looked more appetizin'," Sudden said soberly. "O' course, Snowy might be the fella, but how did Mister Lesurge get wise an' what's his game? was he waitin' here for the girl, an' where's the real uncle? Also who wiped out her daddy?" His friend looked at him in mock disgust. "Can't yu think o' no more questions?"

"Shore, there's another," Sudden grinned. "What are we goin' to do about it?" Mason spun round, his face alight. "Jim, did yu mean that `we'?" he asked.

"Why, I got nothin' to interest me about now," was the careless reply, "an' they tell me gold-minn' is a lazy way o' gettin' a livin'."

"I wish I knowed if she really believes in this scarecrow relative," Gerry reflected.

"Go an' ask her," Sudden suggested. "She don't look like she'd savage yu, though yu can't tell; women is same as hosses--the meekest-appearin' is sometimes the one to pile yu "

"Miss Ducane would never say a harsh word to anyone," Gerry reproved, and departed in search of this paragon.

Greatly to his relief he did not have to ask for her--she tripped out of the hotel just as he arrived. She was pleased to see this boy who had been chivalrous and attentive to her, and she said so, but when he bluntly asked whether she was satisfied that Snowy was indeed the uncle she had come to find, her smile vanished and a look of dignified surprise took its place.

"Have you any right to put such a question?" she inquired, and when he could find no answer, "What object could Mister Lesurge and that harmless old man have in deceiving a girl who has nothing?" Mason could have replied that she had herself, but his courage would not carry him so far, and as he did not know the whole story of her pilgrimage could only mutter doubts about "that other fella."

"Mister Lesurge has been exceedingly good," she said severely. "He is a gentleman."

"Looks to me more like a tin-horn gambler," the boy burst out angrily.

Her eyes grew stormy. "How dare you say such an outrageous thing?" she cried. "I am afraid I have misjudged you. When I heard you had been engaged in a brawl yesterday I was willing to believe it was not your fault, but I fear you must be of a quarrelsome nature." He could have told her that the trouble was on her account, but he had his pride, and remained silent. One not vitally concerned might have smiled at her rather prim seriousness, so out of keeping with her budding beauty, but to Gerry Mason it was the end of a dream and it made him reckless. Leaving her without another word, he went to the Pioneer. There Sudden found him an hour later and one glance showed him the state of affairs.

"Tryin' to buy the business a glassful at a time?" he asked sarcastically, and then, "So Uncle is all wool an' a yard wide, huh?"

"Shore, an' at that he ain't so wide as Mister Lesurge," Mason sneered."Yu were dumb enough to mention him, o' course?"

"I on'y said he looked like a card-sharp an' she r'ared right up--I thought she was goin' to eat me."

"A sad mouthful--she would have had a headache in the mornin'. Well, yu seem to have made a mess of it, an' that rotgut won't help none. Let's vamoose." As they stepped from the door of the saloon, Mason staggered and nearly fell. And, of course, it was at that moment Miss Ducane and Lesurge passed on the other side of the street. The girl gave them one glance of mingled pity and disgust and went on, her head high.

"Your young friend appears to be enjoying himself," Lesurge commented.

"I didn't think he was that kind," she replied sadly, a little conscious that she might be responsible for the lapse.

"Oh, cattlemen are all alike," he said easily. "Women and drink are irresistible magnets to them."

"Yes, I suppose so," she returned, and wondered why she should regret it.

* * * The next few days were spent in preparing for the journey westwards and in the course of them Mary Ducane came to know and like the old man she called "Uncle." Queer he undoubtedly was, but always, to her, kind and considerate. He was eager to start for the gold-fields and extravagant in his promises of what he would do for her.

It had been arranged that Lesurge and his "friend"--Fagan --who had expressed his contrition to Miss Ducane and been prettily pardoned--should join them in their journey to the Black Hills. They would not be alone. Tim Welder's reports and Snowy's stories of lucky strikes in the old wild Californian days had aroused the cupidity and adventurous spirit of some of the younger Waysiders, tempting them to try their fortunes at the new diggings.

"Yu fellas oughta come along," Welder remarked to the two cowboys on the night before the start was to be made. "Why, I reckon we'll trail with yu," Sudden said, and saw the fleeting frown pass across the face of Lesurge. He looked at the saloon-keeper. "I didn't figure on stayin' here, anyways." The cowboys consulted Snowy as a matter of course and when he had advised on the question of outfit, he added: "I'm right glad you boys is comin'. Don't git too fur from me--fella never knows when he'll need a friend:" With a finger on his lips he stole away.

"Now what d'yu make o' that?" Gerry queried, when they were alone. "O' course, he's weak in the head."

"Mebbe," Sudden replied. "Did yu notice that he kept glancin' over his shoulder an' that Lesurge an' Angel-face wasn't about? They ain't pleased we're goin'--not a little mite, an' that's a good reason for not changin' our minds."

"An' for takin' Snowy's tip to stay around."

"Shore, but I misdoubt we're headed for trouble."

"I ain't carin'," the boy said. "I can shoot some, an' I'm guessin' yu know about guns, seem' yu tote a couple."

"It's a matter o' balance," Sudden explained gravely. "One makes me walk all lopsided. Allasame, I do savvy which end to point at the other man."

"Yeah. Yo're forgettin' I was present when yu put Angel-face through his paces," Gerry said, and regretted the reminder when he saw the twinkle in the other's eyes.

"I ain't," Sudden replied. "How's this strike yu for a tombstone? `Here lies Gerry Mason. He turned his back.' " The boy laughed. It was impossible to be angry with this drawling, lazy-appearing stranger who had saved his life, and of whom he knew nothing.

Chapter IV

For weeks they had been traversing an apparently limitless, undulating waste of short grass, burned brown by the sun, and broken here and there by shallow ravines. There were no trees save occasional patches of cottonwoods by the river-banks, but bushes of greasewood, sagebrush and prickly pear were more plentiful. The nights were cold, the mornings clear and pleasant, but as the day advanced the heat increased and the travellers were almost stifled by the billowing clouds of sand and alkali dust churned up by the thousands of plodding hoofs.

The trail, scored and rutted by use, stretched out interminably to the horizon. Twenty-five miles a day was good going, and unless an outfit broke down, no attempt was made to pass it. If the daylight hours were long and monotonous, nightfall brought plenty to do. Camp had to be made, the wagons ranged in big circles, forage fetched--for the trail had beeneaten bare for some distance on both sides, wells dug--unless they were near a river--holes two or three feet deep, into which the water slowly seeped.

Smudge fires of greasewood or sage, aromatic but pungent and irritating, kept the mosquitoes at bay, and then came supper--bacon, beans, cornbread, pies made of dried fruits, and coffee.

The Wayside contingent had joined the train two weeks earlier. The men had their mounts, but a place was found for Miss Ducane in one of the leading wagons, to which party her uncle, Lesurge, and Fagan also attached themselves. The cowboys found a welcome with the traveller immediately behind, a raw-boned agriculturist from Missouri, who had a small herd of cattle to serve as relays for his team and to form a nucleus for the farm he hoped to establish.

For while some of the adventurers were headed for the goldfields, more were genuine settlers, crossing the continent to people and till the untamed soil of California and Oregon. The Missourian counted himself lucky to get a couple of cowboys to handle his herd and was well content to feed them in return for their service. They too did not complain, for his wife was a good cook.

"Which that woman's pumpkin pie is liable to wreck the happiness of any single fella," was how Gerry put it.

"I'm takin' yore word," Sudden said satirically. "Gawd knows yu've concealed enough of it; I never seen anyone push pie into his face so fast an' frequent." Before the outraged young man could find an adequate retort, he deftly switched the conversation, "Seen Miss Ducane lately?" The red crept up under the boy's tanned skin. His fondness for riding ahead to "take a look at the country" had not escaped his companion's notice. He had seen her but--and this was where the shoe pinched--she had not, apparently, seen him. So he lied brazenly.

"No," he replied carelessly, "She 'pears to stick to that blame' wagon like she was glued to it. Mister Lesurge is plenty active though, gettin' to be quite popular among the parties goin' to the Black Hills." Sudden digested this in silence. Actually it was no news; he had already observed Lesurge's efforts to get acquainted with that section of his fellow-travellers and had put it down to the fellow's natural vanity.

"Fagan's got a new friend too," Mason went on. "Shortish chap with bow-legs an' a mean eye, called `Bandy'."

"What's the name o' the other eye?" Sudden asked interest edly, and listened to a short but pithy description of himself. "This hombre has a Dago's black greasy hair an' his face looks like someone had pushed it in."

"Han'some fella," Sudden commented. "No, I ain't seen him." The omission was to be rectified a little later when the chase of a steer took him down the trail. Returning with the runaway at the end of his rope, he pulled up at a halted wagon, with a group of men ringed round two others. One of these, a slight bow-legged man with a peculiarly fiat face and beady eyes, was bending forward, a hand on his pistol. The other, a burly, bearded teamster, stood a dozen paces away, gripping his whip.

"Pull yore gun, farmer," the former was saying. "I'll larn you to lay yore paws on Dick Rodd."

"I don't use none," the other replied. "If you was more'n half a man I'd take my han's to you, but ..." His look of contempt at the puny figure of his adversary finished the sentence.

One of the onlookers now noticed the man on the black horse. "Hey, cowboy," he called. "Yo're the fella to settle this; you've seen gun-fights, I'll lay." Sudden rode nearer. "What's the trouble?" he inquired.

The teamster explained, with an angry gesture towards his opponent: "This rat has been shinin' up to my daughter, who don't want none of his company. I've warned him two-three times to keep his distance an' now I find him pesterin' her again. I had to argue with him."

"He kicked me--me, Dick Rodd," the little man almost screamed. "He dies for that, the " He ended with a string of obscenities.

"Why didn't yu let the gal alone if she didn't want yu?" the cowboy asked.

"Bah! women are all alike," came the sneering reply. "They just retreat to draw a fella on. I ain't the on'y one she's "

"You dirty liar," the teamster stormed.

As though he had been waiting for this further provocation, Rodd rapped out an oath and dragged at his weapon. It was no more than half out of the holster, however, when Sudden spoke again:

"Put that back where it belongs or yu'll eat yore supper in a hotter place than this." The cold, passionless tone was pregnant with menace. Still clutching the butt of his gun, Rodd hesitated. Then, when he saw that by some miracle of speed, one of the cowboy's Colts was covering him, he let his hand drop to his side.

"What damn business is it o' yores, anyway?" he grumbled. Sudden did not answer. He turned to the teamster. "Can yu use that whip pretty good?" he asked.

"Can I use her?" the man repeated. "Why, stranger, I c'n take a fly off'n the ear o' my lead ox an' the critter wouldn't know." Boastful as the statement certainly was, Sudden knew it might not be very wide of the truth. The cowboy looked at the smaller man.

"Understand whips?" he questioned.

"Naw," was the disgusted reply. "I ain't no perishin' hayseed." Sudden pondered for a moment. "He don't savvy yore weapon an' yu don't savvy his," he said. "It'll have to be yore gun against his whip."

"Suits me," the teamster said, adding grimly. "I'll have an eye out'n him 'fore he can wink it." The second combatant was less prompt in speaking and it was plain he did not like the proposition, though it appeared to be in his favour; he had but to pull and fire his gun before the other struck. But he knew the incredible speed with which the lash would come at him, like a striking 'snake, and with force sufficient to cut through the tough hide of an ox. If he fired and missed there would be no second shot; he would be cut to ribbons, perhaps--blinded! A shiver shook him, and in that moment he came to a decision; there were safer ways of compassing his revenge.

"I ain't puffin' on a man what isn't `heeled'," he said sullenly, and turned to where his horse was standing.

"You lousy yeller dawg," the teamster shouted, and swung his weapon.

Sudden raised a protesting hand. "He's all o' that but yu gotta let him go," he said.

Amid a chorus of jeers the discomfited ruffian climbed to his saddle. The cowboy had a final word for him:

"If any accident happens to our friend here"--he pointed to the teamster--"I'll be lookin' for yu," he warned, adding with a hard smile, "an' I shall be heeled." He had to eat with the teamster's family, his wife, a plump, homely woman, the daughter--cause of all the trouble--a pretty girl with rosy cheeks and a shy smile, and a tow-headed boy of twelve who could not take his eyes off the visitor's guns.

"Say, mister, you ever wiped anybody out with those?" he presently blurted out.

Sudden's smile faded. "Do I look like a killer?" he fenced. "I'm allowin' you don't," was the reply. "But if you was riled, I'd step around mighty careful."

"Shet yore trap," his father ordered, and, apologetically to his guest, "Dunno what kids is comin' to; if I'd spoke out like that in company my of man would have had the hide off'n me. So you won't trail along with us to Oregon?" Sudden shook his head. "I got other plans," he excused. When he returned to his own outfit, Mason was mildly facetious. "What was it yu forgot?" he inquired, and grinned at his friend's look of bewilderment. "Yu must 'a' gone back to Wayside for somethin'." Sudden joined in the laugh at his own expense. "Nigger's a good hoss but he ain't got wings," he said. "I've been makin' the acquaintance of yore friend with the barrel-hoop legs."

"What, Bandy?" Mason asked.

"He certainly is. I never met anyone whose knees were such total strangers."

"How come?" Sudden told the story in his own whimsical fashion, passing lightly over his part in it, but Gerry was beginning to know this habit of careless indifference.

"An' he ate crow?" he said incredulously. "I s'pose he ain't exactly in love with yu?"

"I'm afraid I hurt his feelin's," Sudden said, an unrepentant twinkle in his eyes, and then he sobered. "I should 'a' warned yu, Gerry, that I'm one o' 0I' Man Trouble's special favourites; yu oughta cut loose from me."

"Like hell!" came the hearty rejoinder. "I didn't come West to pick flowers an'--there's Miss Ducane." There was a reverence in the boy's tone as he spoke the name which swept the good-natured jest from the other's lips. He liked this frank-faced young fellow whose companionship meant much to a lonely, friendless man. For since he had come North, unjustly driven as an outlaw from his own country, Texas, his quixotic search had kept him moving and he could form no ties.

Chapter V

Deadwood! One narrow street, formed by irregular rows of nondescript buildings of the crudest character, the most pretentious of which were constructed of unbarked logs or roughly sawn boards; a few boasted two storeys, others had the false front so prevalent in frontier settlements, but for the most part the shack and dug-out predominated.

At a first glance the town appeared to consist almost entirely of saloons and gambling dives, with a few stores intermingled, but closer inspection revealed hotels, boarding and eating-houses. Plank sidewalks protected the pedestrian from the roadway--if the almost knee-deep strip of dust, which after rain became a morass of mud--could be so-called. Stumps of trees, boulders, and piles of lumber impeded progress and testified to the feverish haste to which the place owed its being.

The population was as varied as the architecture. Men of every colour, white, yellow, bronze and black, thronged the sidewalks; blue-shirted, bare-throated, bearded miners, their homespun trousers thrust into the tops of their boots, gaily-sashed Mexicans, slant-eyed Chinamen, and occasionally, a plumed Indian, wrapped in his gaudy blanket, dignified, aloof, unreadable. In the road itself, wagons drawn by patient-eyed oxen and piloted by perspiring, vitriolic-tongued drivers ploughed up clouds of fine dust to the extreme discomfort of passers-by. Overhead, in a pale blue sky, the sun blazed.

Into this welter of humanity the new-comers plunged and were at once submerged. Sudden and his friend arrived at one end of the street and Gerry prepared to dismount at the first saloon.

"That can wait," Sudden said. "First we gotta find out where we live." Having left their mounts at a livery stable, they emerged into the street again in time to witness a curious scene. A bent old man, clad in a shabby black coat, was retreating before a group of young roughs who were pelting him with stones and refuse. There was something of dignity in the victim's silence, but Sudden caught a look of appeal in the dark eyes.

"What's the old fella done?" he asked a red-headed youth who appeared to be the ringleader.

"How long you bin peace-officer?" came the impudent retort, shot over a shoulder.

Sudden's long arm reached out and swung the speaker round. "I ain't," he said quietly, "but when I ask a civil question I expect the same sort o' answer." Red-hair's hand had gone to his waistband, where the butt of a gun protruded, but fell away when he saw the type of man he had to deal with. This cold-eyed person who wore two weapons might be a cowpuncher, gunman, or both, and in any case, did not look easy. He decided to temporize.

"Dunno as he's done anythin'," he replied surlily. "He's a Jew, that's what."

"Which is no crime in a free country," the puncher said. "What's the penalty for hein' a cowardly coyote pup?" The contemptuous question, deliberately insulting, upset the young ruffian's poise, and his face became as red as his hair. He did not know what to do; this sarcastic, confident stranger, little older than himself in mere years but twice his age in experience, had him "buffaloed." The shamed bully looked round at his following and for a few tense seconds the issue hung in the balance. But Gerry had been whispering to the nearest of the gang, the word had passed round, and with no more than ugly glares they slouched away. Red-hair, the last to leave, alone found his tongue.

"I'm rememberin' this," he snarled.

"Yo're gettin' sense a'ready," Sudden complimented.

The old man, who had watched the scene with inscrutable eyes, now came forward. "My friends, I thank you," he said, voice and manner entirely out of keeping with the shabby attire. "Those young devils have made life a burden to me for weeks past."

"I reckon they won't trouble yu again, seh," Sudden smiled.

"You certainly gave them a lesson, but I fear they will transfer their enmity to you," the other replied. "Ridicule is a bitter pill for youth to swallow." Sudden laughed and looked at his friend. "Shucks, I figure we can take care of ourselves." The old man's eyes swept over them approvingly. "I do not doubt it, given fair play," he agreed, "but this is the toughest town of the many I have known. You are strangers here; is there any way I can help you?"

"We got in this afternoon an' we're wonderin' where we can bed down," Mason explained.

"The settlement is choke-full--new-comers will have to build shelter or camp out. Fortunately 1 can offer you a roof, though little else. My hut is larger than a single man needs,and there is a small corral at the rear---you have horses, of course?"

"We left them at the livery," Sudden said. "Couldn't get along without the broncs."

"I know," the old man smiled. "Almost the last thing a cowboy parts with--except his life. Well, what do you say?"

"We're mighty obliged," Sudden told him, adding awkwardly, "We ain't exactly broke, yu understand."

"I'm not offering you charity--you will have to keep yourselves, no light task in Deadwood. The room is of no use to me. I ought perhaps to point out that you will be living with one who is poorly regarded."

"Popularity never appealed to me," Sudden assured him, a tinge of bitterness in his tone. "We'll go yu, Mister ?"

"You may call me 'Jacob'," their new friend supplemented. "Deadwood dubbed me a Jew, and, for reasons of my own, I have not refuted it, though 1 am not a member of that persecuted race." At his suggestion they collected the horses and made their way to the far end of the settlement. Jacob's dwelling proved to be the last of the buildings, standing some two hundred yards from the others.

It was a log cabin, strongly but roughly put together, and consisted of three rooms. A table and two stools comprised the furniture of the one at their disposal. Their host apologized for the absence of beds.

"Don't say a word," Mason grinned. "We got blankets an' fetched our own fleas." Having turned their horses into the poled enclosure at the back of the cabin, they sallied forth to the nearest store for supplies. The prices they had to pay made them open their eyes.

"Hell, Jim, we don't want no gold-mine, let's open a store?" Gerry suggested.

"What with--an axe?" Sudden queried. "Allasame, livin' is goin' to come high in this neck o' the woods; yu'll have to hobble yore appetite."

"My appetite? What about your'n?" Gerry cried indignantly.

"I'm a pore eater," Sudden told him.

"My Gawd! then I must be damn near starvation point. C'mon, let's see if the liquor is cheaper." He led the way to one of the saloons, pushed back the swing-door, and swaggered in--modesty on such occasions is not a cowboy virtue. It was a garish place, bedecked with gaudy gilt mirrors and crudely painted but sufficlently daring pictures. A polished bar, with an array of bottles and glasses occupied the back of the room, and there were tables and stools.

The table they chose commanded a good view of both bar and entrance. "They's a han'some lot, I don't believe," Gerry commented.

"Yu weren't expectin' angels, were yu? Talkin' o' them, there's Snowy."

"Huh! Yu won't find no wings sproutin' on his back." The prospector, who was alone, came up and greeted them shrilly. "Hello, boys, been lookin' for you. Take a smile." When the drinks had been procured, he sat down, beamed upon them, and asked, "Where you stayin'?" Sudden told him they had secured a lodging but gave no ,particulars other than the position.

"Yo're lucky," the old man remarked. "Most o' them that come in with us'll be sleepin' under the sky an' if it storms quick--as it can in these parts--they'll have a pore time." '

"Yu an' yo're niece fixed up all right?" Mason inquired.

"You better believe we are," Snowy chuckled. "Paul had it all arranged. He's a clever fella--he don't deny it himself. We're roomin' at the best private house in the town, owned by Miss Lesurge."

"His wife?" Gerry cried.

"Miss Lesurge, I said," Snowy repeated. "His sister an' a fine lady, I'm tellin' you. Say, ain't this one hell of a township?. Takes me back mighty near thirty year. Well, gotta go. Stay around, boys, an' watch my smoke. Don't tell Paul I seen you. Savvy?" He bustled away, leaving both his companions frowning, but for different reasons; Sudden in perplexity, Mason in anger.

"Damn funny," the former reflected aloud.

His friend snorted. "Yu got a twisted sense o' humour if yu see anythin' amusin' in a nice girl like that bein' at the mercy of a crook," he said savagely.

"She's with her uncle."

"An addle-pated soak."

"Also Miss Lesurge." Gerry's report did not flatter the lady.

They procured a meal at an eating-house and Sudden soon became aware that, for some reason, he was attracting attention; men stared at him and looked away at once when hecaught them in the act. He remarked on the fact to his companion.

"Anythin' the matter with my face?" Gerry studied it. "Nothin' more than usual," he pronounced. "O' course, these folks ain't used to it like I am." The voice of young Welder checked the inevitable retort.

"Hi, cowboys, how're you makin' it?" he greeted. He laughed foolishly, lighted a cigarette after several attempts and, as he turned to go, added, "Saw Lesurge armin' Miss Ducane up the street a while back; they made a han'some couple." That night when, rolled in their blankets, they were lying on their beds of spruced boughs, Sudden was aware of smothered explosions of mirth from the other side of the room.

"What's the joke, yu jackass?" he inquired.

There was no answer, but the merriment increased. "They made a han'some couple," the puncher said softly. The laughter ceased instantly, and Sudden grinned in to the gloom, turned over and went to sleep.

Chapter VI

In a little gully, the banks of which were studded with pine and spruce trees, a black-bearded, red-shirted miner was busily digging, whistling a merry tune the while. This ceased suddenly and he looked up with a scowl as the visitors--whose approach he had not heard--pulled up. When he saw the two cowboys, however, his expression at once became amiable. Sudden, whose quick eye had noted the change and caught the swift glance at the rifle leaning against a bush, concluded that the man had mistaken them for redskins.

"Mornin', friend?" he said. "We ain't aimin' to nose in, but not bein' much up to this gold-gettin' game we thought watchin' yu might give us a pointer." The man now saw the pick, shovel and pan tied to the cantles of their saddles, unaccustomed burdens to which their mounts had at first offered spirited objections. He grinned understandingly.

"New chums, huh?" he replied. "Well, there's nothin' to it, if the dust is around, any fool c'n find it; if it ain't, the cleverest can't. Washin' the dirt is me tricky bit; must be a lot o' waste thataway." He threw a spadeful of the sandy soil into his pan, nearly filled it with water from a rill which was only a few yards distant, and squatting down began to stir the mixture slowly with one hand, at each revolution deftly flicking a small quantity of the muddy liquid out of the vessel. He continued the process until only a little of the water remained, poured this carefully away, and eagerly scanned the bottom of the pan. His expression when he looked up was one of chagrin.

"Not even `colour'," he said, thus intimating that his experiment had produced no sign of the precious metal. "Well, gents, that's the way of it, but I'm advisin' you not to fool about with thisyer gully--she's no good." Wishing him better luck, they rode on, and when they had lost sight of him, Sudden said, "Watch out for g likely place an' we'll try for some nuggets."

"But that hombre said it was a bum place," Gerry protested. "Shore he did," Sudden smiled. "But he didn't slam that pan down an' was careful to put it where we couldn't get a peep at it. I'll bet he's workin' like sixty this moment." The spot they selected was a short way up one wall of the gully, a sandy space shaded by trees and shrubs, with a tiny rivulet of clear water passing through it. For hours they dug and washed but not one speck of yellow rewarded their efforts and at length Gerry dropped the pan and glared round balefully at the holes which now disfigured the little plateau.

"Coupla perishin' good gophers we are, I'm tellin' yu," he said. "We oughta dig two big ones, crawl in, an' pull 'em in after us. That jasper was right."

"Shucks, a fella don't allus get his cow first flip o' the rope," Sudden consoled, his gaze on the silver streak of water sliding and jumping down the bank a few yards away. "Ever hear of a 'flume'?"

"Sorta wooden trough for washin' dirt, ain't it? Snowy used to talk of 'em," Mason replied. "We don't have one."

"They have cross-bars to catch the gold--they call 'em `riffles,' " his friend went on reflectively. "That trickle o' water is a natural flume, it's cut a channel for itself down the slope, an' there's yore riffle." He pointed to where a ledge of rock formed a miniature waterfall. "She's worth a trial." Straddling the stream, he scooped up handfuls of sand from above the obstruction into the pan, and began to wash it. Neither of them was as yet expert in manipulating the muddy mess, much of which was distributed over their own persons,but at length only a sprinkling of sand remained and after one glance Gerry flung back his head. Sudden clapped a wet and gritty hand over his mouth just in time to stifle the shrill cowboy yell of triumph.

"Ain't yu got no sense?" he asked the spluttering victim. "Why not fork yore bronc an' go tell the town?"

"Sorry, Jim," Mason said. "I didn't think."

"Yo're tellin' me," was the sarcastic retort.

Eagerly they bent over the pan, noting the shining grains mingled with the remaining sand. Repeated washings removed the latter, and in the end, a tiny heap of yellow metal was left.

"She ain't a bonanza but I reckon we'll be able to go on eatin'," Sudden said. "Get busy, cowboy." Mason needed no urging. His saturnine companion might be indifferent to wealth, but he himself wanted it; he had come West to get it, and now--there was another reason.

Drenched with perspiration, aching in every limb, they stuck to their task until a red glow in the sky announced that night was near. By this time the leathern sack which contained their gleanings had grown appreciably in weight, and they decided to call it a day.

"My back's like it had been broken an' badly mended," Sudden groaned, as he hoisted himself into the saddle. "Go easy, yu black devil," he chided, for Nigger, having been idle all day, was disposed to be frolicsome.

"Yo're lucky," Gerry told him. "Mine feels as if the mendin' was still to do. How much d'yu figure we got?"

"Dunno, mebbe Jacob has some scales." He had, and the cowboys watched with interest as he adjusted them and weighed the result of their labour. Then he looked up with a little smile.

"You have done very well, my friends," he said. "Three ounces of dust, at eighteen dollars the ounce--which is the ruling rate--is not bad for a beginning."

"On'y three ounces?" Gerry said disappointedly. "I reckon it oughta be three pounds for the work we put in."

"You have been fortunate," the old man told him. "Hundreds of men here slave for weeks without making a grubstake. Big finds only come to the favoured few."

"Yo're a hawg, Gerry," Sudden reproved. "What yu got to-day would take yu darned near a month to earn punchin' cows."

"I'd get my grub thrown in," Mason grumbled.

"Yeah, with a shovel," his friend laughed. "It's about the on'y way they could fill yu. C'mon, let's go an' start a famine." They went out wrangling, oblivious to the curious expression in the eyes of their host.

"It doesn't seem possible," he muttered.

* * Snowy had said no more than the truth when he described the residence of Miss Lesurge as the best in the town. Standing back a little from the street, solidly built of squared logs, it comprised two storeys and was comfortably furnished. Even Paul Lesurge paid his sister a compliment upon it.

"The man who had it put up made a pile soon after it was completed and started for the East," she explained. "I got it cheaply." Paul's dark eyes held hers for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Good for you, Lora," he said. "I am pleased with it. I knew I could depend on you."

"Didn't know we was comin' to yore own house, Paul," Snowy said.

"Having business in Deadwood I must stay somewhere, so I sent my sister on to make arrangements. Naturally, since I have a home, my friends are welcome." He had already presented his guests and Miss Lesurge had welcomed them graciously. Tall, not yet thirty, her pale, oval face, full red lips, and eyes that matched the black hair deftly coiled on a haughty head gave her a compelling beauty. She moved with a sinuous ease which accentuated her fine figure and somehow reminded Mary Ducane of a tiger-cat. This impression was deepened by her low voice, which, at times, was almost a purr. Paul Lesurge was still interested in the house.

"It must have cost the original owner a fortune," he mused. "All this furniture could only be brought by ox-wagons across the plains. Why did he sacrifice it?" Miss Lesurge shrugged her shapely shoulders. "Rillick--that was his name--wanted to get away. Another successful miner offered to play him at poker for the property, he setting up a certain sum in gold against it. Rillick accepted and won almost alt the other possessed, nearly doubling his own wealth in one night. After that, he didn't care if he gave the house away." When the guests had retired to their rooms, Paul turned to his sister. "So Rillick gave you the house?" he said.

With a gesture of impatience she got up, opened a drawer and took out a paper. "I paid him a thousand dollars for it," she replied. "Here is the receipt." Lesurge hardly looked at it. "Only that?" The woman's dark eyes flashed. "Only that," she repeated. "What sort of a fellow was he?"

"Youngish, not bad-looking, and worth half a million."

"Why didn't you go?" She flinched as though he had struck her, and then said coldly: I argued that if a fool--and he was one--could clean up as much as that, we could treble it. The old man seems half mad; is he really her relative?"

"No, but she believes him to be, which is all that matters," Paul said. "He's only crazy about gold."

"Then he doesn't know where the mine is?" Lesurge explained the position and when he had finished, she said rather scornfully, "Fagan appears to have blundered. You seem to be fond of half-wits."

"A blunt instrument is useful at times," he told her. "Why did you warn the girl? Have you had trouble?"

"Two days after I arrived here a man grossly insulted me in the street; he was drunk, and a Mexican at that."

"What happened?"

"I stabbed him," she said coolly, and, noting the frown on his face, added, "Oh, there was no fuss. I paid the funeral expenses and was complimented by leading citizens on my pluck. These boors think I'm wonderful." The contempt in her tone was real enough.

Lesurge nodded his satisfaction. "Excellent," he said. "We'll have them eating out of our hands before we're through."

"So the cowboys followed you here?" she asked.

"Yes, but they'll be too busy scrambling for gold to bother us," Paul assured her. "And anyway, Mason is dumb; Green, the black-haired one, might be dangerous; if he gets into the game we'll have to deal with him."

"The girl is pretty--in a way," she said casually, her eyes upon him.

But Paul Lesurge could play poker. "I suppose she is," he replied carelessly. "The kind of 'wild blossom from the prairie' type that a man with brains would tire of in a month."

"For once, I think you are wrong, Paul," she returned. "What is to happen to her?"

"Haven't thought about it," was the nonchalant reply. There Paul Lesurge was guilty of an error, for the woman was well aware that he always planned ahead, and was therefore lying.

"Who is the man with the most influence here?" he asked.

"Reuben Stark, owner of the Monte, the largest of the gambling saloons. He has a number of miners working for him on grubstake terms and that gives him an obedient following."

"Is he a straight man?"

"Are there any?" she asked cynically. "No, I'd say he's as crooked as a dog's hind-leg, but he'll serve your purpose. He rather admires me," she added.

"Splendid!" Lesurge said. "Anyone else."

"Jean Bizet, who runs the Paris in opposition to Stark. A French-Canadian, reputed to be just--but only just," she smiled. "Has a squaw wife, and, curiously enough, worships her. Hickok too is among our distinguished citizens."

"Wild Bill?" Paul cried. "What the devil is he doing here?"

" `Where the carcase is ...' " the woman quoted.

"Hickok is no vulture; he has the name for being square."

"Possibly, but he's not immortal, is he?" Lesurge looked at her; callous as he was, there were times when her cold-bloodedness amazed him.

"No, but one might be excused for thinking so," he replied. "They say he never misses."

"Someone will get him--from behind--one of these days," she shrugged. "In any case, square folk are easier to fool, being straight themselves they are not so suspicious of others."

"Well, let's hope we don't have to try and fool Hickok," was Paul's sinister reply.

Chapter VII

Two weeks passed and the cowboys' store of gold slowly but steadily increased; it was by no means large, but, as Sudden had said, they were able to go on eating. A day or two had exhausted the natural barrier in the stream and then they worked upwards.

"The dust we found has been washed down," Sudden argued, "an' mebbe there's more to come; we'll save it the trouble." There was more, in no great quantity, but sufficient to be worth while. The task of getting it was arduous in the extreme.

"For real work thls job has a round-up beat to a frazzle," Mason complained. "What's the good o' cash yu got no chance to spend?" For since they usually arrived home too tired to do more than eat and tumble into their blankets, Deadwood had seen nothing of them. This was not the first hint Mason had offered and Sudden knew that a desire for relaxation was not the real reason.

"1 guess we've earned a holiday," he said. "We'll slick up to-night an' give the town a treat." Accordingly, the evening found them mixing with the stream of humanity which thronged the sidewalks, shouting noisy greetings in a medley of tongues, singing raucous songs, jostling one another as they entered or left the various places of entertainment. Again Sudden experienced one of those incidents which he was quite unable to explain. A roistering miner staggered out of a saloon, barged into him and went down. With an oath he picked himself up and was feeling for his gun when a shaft of light from the swinging door lit up the cowboy's countenance. The man stared, his hand fell to his side, and with a mumbled apology, he turned away.

Sudden looked at his companion in bewilderment.

"What do yu know about that?" he asked. "The fella was goin' to perforate me an' the sight of my face scared him cold." This was too good an opening. "What surprises me is that it surprises yu," Mason grinned. "Ain't yu never used a mirror? Yore face would make a grizzly turn tail."

"Yu chatterin' chump," Sudden said. "Let's go in here."

"Pull yore hat well down, we don't want to start a stampede," Gerry retorted.

The Paris Saloon was packed with people. Most of those present were men but there was a sprinkling of the other sex, women of various ages, whose expensive attire displayed their charms with some freedom, who drank and gambled with their male escorts and laughed with their painted lips and never with their eyes.

One half of the floor space in front of the long bar was devoted to games of chance, of which a roulette board attracted most attention. The other half contained the customary tables and chairs. Threading a way through the latter, the cowboys arrived at the bar and at once a dapper little man with twinkling eyes, dark crinkly hair, and a pointed beard, stepped up.

"Gentlemen, I am pleas' to welcome you," he greeted. "I have live wit' de cow, yes, bien sur, I, Jean Bizet, when I cook for de Cross T on de Canadian Border. Ah, dose sacre mule, dey nearly pull de arm out. You dreenk wit' me?" He chattered on, recalling incidents of the range. "Ah, it was de good days," he said. "Sometimes I regret, but a man must move, not so? If he stay one place all de while he get--how you say--ver' rusty." They returned his hospitality and Sudden told him they must get on--they were looking for someone. The little man's face sobered.

"Dat soun' bad," he said. "What he done?" Sudden laughed. "He's just a friend; we ain't on the warpath," he explained.

Bizet laughed too. "I mak' mistake. I am glad. W'en a man look for another it sometime mean trouble. You come again?"

"Shore we will," Sudden said heartily.

They had almost reached the door when it swung back to admit a man who would have attracted attention in any gathering. Over six feet in height, with a perfectly proportioned frame, he moved with the ease and grace of an athlete. The yellowish hair which reached to his shoulders, pale blue eyes, long drooping moustache, and clean-cut features were offset by a calm confidence and dignity of bearing which stamped their possessor as no ordinary individual.

His attire added to the impression. A tailed cutaway coat of dark cloth, wide trousers narrowing towards the feet, a fancy vest, high-heeled boots, and a "boiled" shirt with a narrow black tie. Buckled round his middle was a leather belt with two white-handled Colt's revolvers.

The hum of conversation ceased at his appearance and every eye followed him as he stepped quietly, with a nod here and there, to where Bizet was standing. The little Frenchman hurried to meet him.

"Who is that?" Sudden asked a bystander.

The man's eyebrows lifted. "Say, friend, where you been hidin'?" he asked. "It's Wild Bill, o' course--thought everybody knowed him."

"I'm a stranger here," Sudden explained, and led the way to the street.

For a while he was silent, his mind full of the man they had just seen. Wild Bill, the most famous gunman in the West. Sudden found himself dwelling on the big man's draw, wondering if he himself could beat it. Then he laughed; Sudden, the gunfighter, had been left behind; here, he was just Jim Green, a cowpuncher and miner. Mason's voice broke in:

"Yu'd never take him for a killer, would yu? Looked just an ordinary fella."

"An' why not? D'yu expect every man who shoots another in self-defence to have the brand o' Cain burned on his forehead?" Sudden retorted, with unusual bitterness.

"I've seen some what didn't need no brand," Mason answered, and changed the subject. "Wonder why that s'loonkeeper hombre was so dern glad to see us?"

"One cattleman is allus pleased to meet up with another," his friend said. "I've a hunch he's white. Here's another big joint; let's go in an' see if we can scare up a Waysider." The Monte--like the opposition establishment--was full and with the same class of customer. It was a replica of the other on a rather larger and more showy scale. Despite the crowded state of the room, they experienced no difficulty in reaching the bar--people seemed almost eager to make way for them--and Sudden again had the uneasy feeling that he was the object of general interest. Mason was grinning.

"Yu might be Wild Bill hisself these toughs is so perlite," he remarked.

"And yu might be King Solomon if yu had any brains a-tall," Sudden told him. "Lesurge an' Angel-face seem to have got themselves some friends." They were sitting at a table in a far corner and with them were several others, notably a fat, blond fellow, flashily dressed, with a heavy watch-guard made of gold nuggets slung across his vest. Interested as he was in the conversation, his pig-like eyes roamed restlessly round the room and he saw all that was taking place.

"Reuben Stark, the owner o' this shebang," Sudden informed. "Dunno the others but I'll gamble they ain't cyphers in this city o' sin. Mister Lesurge don't waste his time an' he's whirlin' a wide loop. I'm goin' to buck the tiger." They strolled over to the roulette table and again they had no trouble in getting near to it though there were plenty of eager speculators. The puncher won about forty dollars in a few careless throws and to the surprise of his companion, cashed in and turned away.

"But, Jim, luck's tannin' yore way," he protested.

"That's when to stop," the other replied.

He had fully expected to hear jeers at his lack of nerve from some of the coarse-faced, half-intoxicated men around him, but not even a shoulder was shrugged.

"You got this town tamed," Mason remarked, and hid a smile. "Yu oughta be in a show, puttin' the lions through their tricks."

"It has me beat," Sudden said. "Wonder where Snowy is?" They met him outside and he greeted them with boisterous expressions of goodwill. He reeked of whisky, but there was no slur in his speech, no unsteadiness in his gait. It was Snowy's boast that he was never drunk until his back teeth were submerged.

"Paul about?" he asked, when he had informed Mason that Miss Ducane was "fighting fit. "

"He's inside, with Stark an' some others," Sudden told him. Snowy nodded. "One smart guy, Paul," he said. "Won't be long afore he's runnin' thisyer burg an' it's shorely time somebody took a holt, the killin's an' robberies is gittin' too mighty prevalent."

"Found yore mine yet, Snowy?" Gerry inquired.

"No, young fella, an' I ain't going to look for it till we got some sort o' protection. It'll keep; I ain't in no hurry."

"Some other jasper may light on it," Gerry persisted. "'Tain't likely, but if it did happen that way I'd get me another; I can allus find gold--I smell it." With a wild laugh he pushed open the door of the saloon, turned and whispered, "Keep handy," and vanished.

"Mad as a loon," Mason decided.

"I ain't so shore," his friend replied. "What I can't savvy is why folks side-step me like I was a rattler?" He got the solution to the problem a few nights later as he was returning from the store where they obtained their supplies. A thin, weedy shrimp of a man, whom he recognized as one of the group with Lesurge in the Monte, stopped him.

"Say, Mister Green, c'n I have a word with you?" he asked. The man shuffled his feet and cast an oblique glance at a nearby dive. Obviously he did not want to talk in the open, and Sudden therefore determined that he should.

"I ain't drinkin'," he said. "Yu can trail along o' me an' sing yore song. I'm shy yore name."

"Berg," the other replied, and then went on with a rush, "You know Bill Hickok? Well, he don't like you."

"No reason why he should, we've never met."

"Mebbe, but he says he's goin' to get you--heard him my own self, an' so did others." The cowpuncher cogitated over this amazing statement and then, "What's he sore about?" he inquired.

"Sore nothin'," was the reply. "You know what these biggunmen are. He's cock o' the walk around here an' he ain't goin' to let anyone else crow, that's what."

"But why pick on me--I ain't let out a chirp?"

"Hell, he's scared--yo're Sudden, ain't you?" The puncher stopped as though one of Wild Bill's bullets had struck him. Then his iron nerve came to his aid. "Sudden?" he sneered. "Where'd yu get that fool notion?"

"Why, all the town knows," Berg retorted. "Yore pard told young Ginger when you stopped him baitin' of Jacob." This cleared the air somewhat but not entirely; how did Gerry know? Sudden had never breathed a word of his past. He turned to the man who had flung this bombshell at him.

"My pard was joshin'--he's a born humorist," he said.

Berg smiled sourly. "He'll be a dead humorist when the boys find out an' if you owed me money I'd be askin' for it now," he said with sinister emphasis.

Sudden knew it was true; the town would never forgive what it must regard as a deliberate imposture.

"So yu are here to warn me, just a kindly act, huh?"

"I came to warn you, yes, an' give you a chance o' pickin' up a nice piece o' change. There's big men in Deadwood who got no use for Hickok. Put him outa business--any way you choose--an' there'll be a thousand bucks for you an' no comeback, see?" The cowboy's fists bunched at this infamous proposal but he controlled his anger and asked coolly, "Who are these big men?"

"I ain't sayin'," was the expected reply. "Put the job over an' the cash will be ready for you at my shack." The cowpuncher glanced round; they were clear of the street and had almost reached Jacob's cabin. With a quick snatch he had the other by the throat.

"Yu dirty rat," he rasped, and shook him till the teeth of the wretch rattled in his jaws. "So yu take me for a hired killer? I'd twist yore rotten neck if I hadn't a use for yu. Go back to the cowards that sent yu an' tell 'em to come along an' I'll kill 'em one after the other--for nothin'." With a powerful thrust he hurled the almost senseless form into the dust and strode away. His frowning face when he entered the cabin apprised his friend that something was wrong.

"Been fightin'?" he asked.

"No," came the snapped answer. "What possessed yu to tell that fool boy I was 'Sudden'?" Gerry started to grin but changed his mind. "It seemed a good jape to put over on him andeg mebbe saved a ruckus," he explained. "I couldn't know he'd chatter but it's goin' to make things easy for us, seemin'ly."

"It's goin' to make things damned difficult. Why did yu pick on Sudden?"

"I'd heard of him; he's a Texas outlaw an' the least likely to show up, I figured. Yu ain't tellin' me he's here?"

"I am--just that," Sudden retorted, grimly gratified at the result the statement produced.

The boy's face became a picture of consternation as he realized that his little comedy was likely to have a tragic ending. "My Gawd, Jim, I'm sorry," he groaned. "By all accounts, he's reckoned the worst hell-raiser in the south-west, a heartless hound who shoots folk just to see 'em kick. I guess yu'd better head for the woods an' let me take the medicine--I got yu in the jam." His perturbed gaze rested on the other. "Yu certain he's here?"

"Dead shore," was the reply, and with a hard smile, "Yo're lookin' at him."

"Quit it, Jim, this ain't no time for foolin',"

"I am givin' it to yu straight," was the harsh answer. "I am the man they call 'Sudden,' outlawed in Texas, an' lied about everywhere else." He waited for the expected look of repulsion, but Gerry's face expressed only astonishment, admiration and relief.

"Then it's all right," he cried, and grinned widely. "No call for yu to run away from yoreself."

"That's what I was tryin' to do when I came here," Sudden said moodily. "'Pears it can't be done. No, Gerry, it ain't all right, it's all wrong--for yu." He hesitated a moment. "We will have to tread different trails."

"Not on yore life," Mason said instantly. "We're pards, an' I'm stick in' to yu like a tick on a cow, that's whatever." Sudden shook his head, but he saw the boy was in earnest and made no further protest. That he could count on one friend dispelled some of the gloom which had enveloped him when he learned his evil reputation had, by a mere chance, dogged him even to far-off Deadwood.

"Then it's on'y fair yu should know who yo're hookin' up with," he replied, and proceeded to give a brief recital of how Fate had foisted his infamous notoriety upon him.' Mason listened in stupefied silence to the story of a promise to a dying man, the blind search for two villains it entailed, and the false accusation of murder which sent a youth no older than himselfwandering in the West with a price on his head, and every man's hand against him.

The relation of his interview with Berg evoked a long whistle of dismay. "The swine!" Gerry exploded. "I hope yu bruk his neck."

"I made myself plain," Sudden said, with a wintry smile. "The fellas who sent him won't like it."

"D'yu reckon Hickok is really after yore scalp?"

"Dunno, but he ain't the breed o' gunman who goes around with a chip on his shoulder. I've heard that he never draws till his hand is forced, but he's probably been told I'm here to get him. That's why I'm callin' on him in the mornin'." Mason sprang to his feet. "Are yu plumb crazy?" he inquired. "Why, he'll down yu on sight; I'm goin' along."

"Yu'll stay here," was the definite reply. "If I don't show up in a coupla hours, yu can make arrangements for the buryin'."

"An' there'll be two holes needed," Gerry said savagely. "Wild Bill may be a wizard with a six-shooter but a load o' buckshot fired from behind

"Shucks, there'll be no battle," Sudden interrupted. "He's white, I tell yu." But Gerry was not so confident, and it was with a glum face that he watched his partner set out in the morning. Jacob found him idly smoking in the doorway.

"Taking a holiday?" he asked.

"Jim has business in town," Gerry explained, and then, unable to keep silent. "He's gone to meet Hickok." The old man's face showed his concern. "That's bad," he said. "No man has ever beaten Wild Bill to the draw, and I doubt if even Sudden--"

"Yu know?" Gerry broke in.

"All Deadwood knows," was the reply. "I found it very hard to believe--he doesn't look like a desperado."

"He ain't," Gerry said eagerly, and told something of what he had learned the night before.

The elder man nodded his comprehension. "Fate plays fantastic tricks with some of us," he said. "Don't worry; despite his terrible toll of human life, Hickok is not a butcher. All will be well; they are both sane men."

CHAPTER VIII

An unpretentious log-hut erected apart from the others and owned by a miner, served as a lodging for the famous gunman. Sudden found him seated at the door, polishing one of his pistols with a silk handkerchief. Hickok paid particular attention to his weapons, which was hardly to be wondered at, for his life might at any moment depend on their being in order. He looked up as the man on the black horse dismounted, threw the reins, and walked unhurriedly towards him.

"Mornin', seh," the visitor said. "I've had word yu wanted to see me." Hickok gathered the import of the greeting, noted the brown nervous fingers hanging loosely over the gun-butts, the effortless, panther-like motion of a body ready to become instinct with action at a second's notice. He gave his gun a final rub, looked at it critically, slipped it into the holster, and stood up.

"Mister Green, I have always held courage to be the greatest of human virtues," he began, "because, in this ill-contrived world of ours, it is shorely the most needed. I am pleased to meet yu." Then he added gravely, "I could have killed yu five times while yu were addressin' me." Sudden's eyes twinkled. "Once would 'a' been a-plenty," he replied. "I had to take the chance."

"The sun is fierce," Hickok observed. "It is cooler inside--an' more private." Seated on stools in the rudely furnished living-room of the hut, these two men who carried death in their hands faced one another.

"I was told that yu had come to Deadwood to kill me," Wild Bill said.

"Berg has been busy," Sudden suggested.

"Yes, it was Berg," the gunman admitted. "I'm guessin' he brought yu the same story about me?" He saw that his surmise was correct, and went on, "What's his game?"

"Obeyin' orders," the puncher stated. "He offered me a thousand dollars to get yu."

"One--thousand--dollars," Hickok repeated softly. "Not very flatterin' to either of us, Mister Green; I should have said the job was worth more. Yore refusal made him sore, I expect?" Sudden smiled. "It certainly did," he confessed. "Berg was all shook up." Hickok smiled too, and then his expression became thoughtful again. "That vermin is of no account--he's on'y bein' used," he said. "I must find out who is behind him."

"In the meantime, yu'll need eyes in the back o' yore head, seh," the puncher warned. "I was told that however it was done there would be no trouble--after."

"I'll be careful," the big man promised, hesitated for a moment and, with a smile, said, "I've heard surprising statements about yore speed in gettin' yore gun workin'. Now that's my best suit an' I've yet to meet the man who is faster. Call it vanity if you like but--I'm curious."

"Shucks, I expect yu can give me a start," the puncher replied. "I'm willin' to try."

"Good," Hickok said.

Standing face to face, a few paces apart, Hickok gave the word. With a speed which baffled sight, the guns flashed to the men's hips and the snap of the falling hammers sounded like one. With something like a sigh, Wild Bill thrust his weapon back into its holster.

"Lucky it was on'y play or we'd have crossed the Divide together," he said. "I've never seen a quicker draw. Mister Green, if the town knew of this ..." He paused in embarrassment, conscious that he, Wild Bill, was almost asking a favour. "Forget I said that," he finished.

"I don't advertise," Sudden replied. "Anyways, I was fortunate, four times outa five yu'd get the edge on me." Hickok shook his head. "If I can help yu, don't hesitate to ask," he said. "Yu'll find me here or at Bizet's--he's a good fella, that Frenchy; yu can trust him." He watched the black horse and its rider turn into the street.

"An' it wasn't that I'm gettin' old an' slow," he muttered, his mind still on the astonishing fact that he had found a man as fast as himself.

Some days later, Paul Lesurge and Reuben Stark foregathered in the latter's private room at the Monte.

"So Berg's plan failed, as I feared it would," Lesurge remarked. "Hickok is too old a hand to tumble into such a trap, and this fellow, Green appears to have intelligence; they will now both be against us--a dangerous pair to draw to."

"Bah! they don't know about us, an' anyway, Bill is past his best," Stark said. "The other fella can be--attended to. What's his interest in the game?"

"I've no idea, except that his partner, Mason, has the infernal impudence to admire my ward, Miss Ducane," Paul replied.

"I expect he ain't alone in that," Stark laughed, and as a rap sounded on the door, "Come in." It was Berg who entered, or rather, crept into the room, his evil, ferrety face more malignant than usual. He slid into a chair, and, at a nod from the host, helped himself from the bottle on the table.

"It's the man I thought," he began. "Calls hisself `Rogan' but he's 'Lefty' Logan, the Californy killer, shore enough."

"Never heard of him," Stark said. "Is he fast?"

"He's here because he ain't knowed in these parts," Berg pointed out. "Yeah, he's fast a-plenty, but he fools 'em--uses the hand they ain't watchin', which is usually the left; that's how he come by his name."

"We don't care how he does it. Will he tackle the job?"

"He won't take on Hickok, though he's workin' for day wages."

"Afraid of him, like the rest o' you," Stark sneered.