Old Misery/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
OLD MIGUEL GOES TO TOWN
OLD MISERY'S first act on arriving at Grass Hollow was to produce a new suit of buckskin from a secret cache.
This he presented to Gilbert, saying:
“Time you quit them store clothes. If it needs fixing over I can do it after a fashion. If it's a fussy job Maria can do it fine.”
The Vermonter was slim and wiry of build and about the mountain man's height, and when he emerged from his cabin one would have said the suit was made for him.
“Reg'lar mountain man after your h'ar grows out way natur' planned for it to,” declared Old Misery, as he gazed approvingly at the trim, picturesque figure. “But it'll be some time afore your whiskers git strong.”
And perhaps his thoughts flashed back across the many years to the time when all west of the Mississippi was practically an unknown country, and when he proudly was wearing his first suit of buckskin. As his old eyes grew warm perhaps it was himself he saw, youthful and greedily curious, and entering upon the strange faring that was to consume the remainder of his life.
While Gilbert walked about alone to get used to his new garments Old Misery proceeded to Miguel's cabin and whistled like an elk. Unless requested to do so he never passed through the dark doorway. Old Miguel came out, his big hat drawn well forward. Framed in the doorway behind him and looking over his shoulder, stood the girl Maria.
Bowing low, the old Mexican greeted:
“The voice of Senor Comandante calls. His servant obeys. It is good to hear his voice again.”
“Miguel, Time deals us new cards, and I find travel in them,” began Old Misery speaking in Spanish. “My new road-medicine tells me your granddaughter must go to Mexico at once, and must stay there.”
The girl gave a little cry and advanced to her grandfather's side.
“She is a bad girl again?” hissed the old man. “What has she done now, Senor Comandante?”
“She is a good girl and has done nothing,” promptly replied the mountain man. “But a snake has told men down below that she is Ana Benites. Manuel Garcia of the crippled hand risked his life to bring word for me to send her from this place.”
Old Miguel remained silent for a minute, his head bowed, his wrinkled face hidden by the broad hat-brim.
Then he threw up his head, and when he spoke his voice was as soft and caressing as a woman's, and he asked:
“The name of the snake, Senor Comandante? It is good for us to know so we may guard against him while on the way to Old Mexico.”
“He calls himself 'Manuel Vesequio.' We call him “Ching-a-ling.'”
The old Mexican spat.
The girl shrilly cried: “He is mad to tell my name! When he spoke the two words he talked his head off his shoulders!”
“So Three-Fingered Jack allowed,” said the mountain man, reverting to English. “He was awfully heyoka when he forgot he was Joaquin Murieta's spy and betrayed you.”
“Hush, thou foolish, little one,” gently rebuked Miguel to the girl. “This is time for men to talk. You shall not be taken.”
Then to Old Misery: “Senor Comandante, your words ever have been so many kindnesses to me and this child. You have wished her well; you have given me shelter so I might die in peace. You have left it to the good God to judge me and mine. I am nearly blind. I can only feel the years pass. But it is good to die where one was born. The grass and the trees and the streams I knew when a young man, all call me. I am anxious to start. How much time have we?”
“A few hours—a few days—I do not know. Let the girl and the young Americano pack food on the mule. Let her lead you two men to a place up the ridge she knows well—a secret place where I have found nuggets of gold. I will wait here for Senor Weymouth and the sailor. When they come in I will make a smoke. She will lead you along the shoulders of the mountains. She knows the trail. After explaining to Senor Weymouth he and I will overtake you.”
“Madre de Diós! Why this going up and coming down? Why must we have the Americanos?” cried Miguel.
“My young friend also has his name spoken. He is talked about. It is known how he helped Joaquin Murieta escape in San Francisco. Men will come to get him. I must take him over the ridge. I can not go with you. Senor Weymouth and his friend shall go with you until you are out of danger. But you must keep to the shoulders of the mountains. That is why you must hide in the little basin up the ridge until Senor Weymouth comes in.”
As he talked he looked at Miguel, avoiding the girl's horrified face. The high color of her cheeks faded to old ivory as she realized her protector must have learned of her impetuous treachery. But by no glance did the mountain man intimate he knew the truth.
“God is good,” piously said Miguel. “Let it be so. When the mule is packed we will start.”
As he bowed and backed through the door he caught the girl by the arm and drew her inside and said something in a low, hurried voice. She cried out, as if protesting; then agreed. And by the time Old Misery had rejoined Gilbert the girl was running after him.
“I come to tell Senor Gilbert there is no place in the pines now where he can not walk,” she breathlessly announced.
“It doesn't matter, Maria,” he gloomily replied. “Old Misery tells me we all are to leave here at once.”
“But it mus' be seen,” she insisted. “It is what you call 'medicine.'”
The last was for the mountain man's benefit, for turning to him she added:
“The medicine of El Carpentero.”
Old Misery's interest was pricked through.
Despite the danger of loitering he eagerly exclaimed:
“Let's take a look. A bird-medicine? Cheyennes have some mighty strong bird-medicine, younker. Never dreamed old Miguel was playing up a bird-medicine. But it's just the kind in the matter of fast traveling. Go ahead, you streak of scarlet.”
The girl danced the way into the pines, vanishing and reappearing between the giant boles, the red of her shoes and stockings contrasted vividly with the floor of brown needles, and her elusive leadership reminded Gilbert of wood-nymphs and other fairy people.
She started up the slope, and the mountain man called to her:
“No time for sight-seeing. What you making up there for?”
The girl veered to the left and bore back toward her cabin. She halted directly back of the cabin, and this time Gilbert found no gnome-like figure barring his close approach to the group of big pines.
Old Misery was impatient for Miguel and the young people to be traveling away from the hollow.
She interrupted his brusk reminders by crying:
“Is not that the work of a greedy one? El Carpentero? But where is Senor Robber Squirrel?”
And she pointed to several of the big pines, whose smooth sections of bark up to a height of five feet appeared to be studded with pegs.
“Woodpeckers that'll store nuts so close to the ground must be heyoka,” grumbled Old Misery. “Come, come, you streak of scarlet! If it's a bird-medicine show how it works. I knew a Cheyenne man who had a master strong swallow-medicine. Is this a woodpecker-medicine?
The girl reached down and drew the slender knife from her garter and advanced to a tree, removed the cup of an acorn, and smiled triumphantly over her shoulder at the men.
“Plumb heyoka!” exclaimed Old Misery. “There ain't no nut! Fool bird forgot to put in a nut!”
“This is the nut, Senor Comandante,” she replied. And scooping the point of her blade into the bark she removed a small nugget of gold.
Very proudly she explained: “My wicked old grandfather is a ver' wise caballero. When his eyes were good he had seen El Carpentero store nuts in trees. The gold he brought to this hollow is in these trees. He tells me to dig them out to take to Mexico.”
“Well, dog my cats!” spluttered Old Misery in disgust. “And I was never wakan 'nough to notice the carpenter and the squirrels never done any fighting in here! I s'posed it was a medicine-place, and kept clear. And yet, at a distance I've noticed the trees was pitted with what looked to be heads of acorns. Never s'pected why Miguel borrered my auger. Lawd! But wouldn't Tom Tobin laff if he knew I was such a thick-head!If they grow any thicker heads in Vermont, younker, I'm sorry for 'em. Take my knife and git to work. We oughter be beating a rawhide drum and singing our travel-song like a Kiowy.”
Gilbert was nervous over the delay and momentarily expected a harsh voice to call out for him to put up his hands. He grabbed the long knife and fell to work aiding the girl. And, whereas he was awkward and her fingers were nimble, he was surprised to find he was removing two nuggets to her one. As he excavated the treasure he was remembering the gold was loot and doubtless blood-stained.
He knew old Miguel had lived outside the law and had forayed stirrup to stirrup with wicked men. Any nugget he dropped into the buckskin bag at the girl's girdle might stand for a murder; and he found himself loath to touch them, and glancing at his fingers to see if they left a stain. She worked as daintily as if handling wedding-china.
He found himself casting her side-glances and marveling how one guilty of treachery and now standing in imminent peril of breaking her own slim neck could be so blithe and merry. She spilled some of the nuggets and laughed shrilly as she dropped on her knees and lost minutes hunting for them.
Old Misery, reclining on the brown needles and smoking his pipe, watched her with puzzled eyes. Her merriment in the presence of the man she had betrayed was beyond his comprehension. Then he grew annoyed and a bit worried at the time required in recovering the nuggets.
He rose and roughly announced: “No more of this, Maria. We ain't at the rendezvous in Pierre's Hole, cel'brating the close of the beaver season. T'other night I dreamed of bloody foot-prints— Yet that couldn't 'a' been it— They was leading away from the holler and down the ridge. Come, come! Git to work packing the mule, Maria. If there's any gold you've overlooked your grandfather can set the price and I'll make it up with honest nuggets.” And he started for the opening.
“Jus' one leetle minute, Senor Comandante,” she pleaded. “Jus' one more!”
And she rose on tiptoe and tried to reach a cache. Nervous to be with the mountain man and on his way up the ridge, Gilbert attempted to secure the nugget for her, but she persisted, and told him:
“Hold me up a bit, Senor Gilbert. I am not very heavy.”
He easily lifted her and held her while she removed the topmost nugget.
As she lightly dropped back to the needles she explained:
“The first my grandfather hid. He jumped up like a monkey and caught the stub of the branch and made the hole with one hand. Hees eyes were better then.”
“Yes, yes,” he impatiently muttered. “But let's be going.”
“I wanted Senor Comandante to go away so I could say: “Forgeeve. I am ver' sorry! I am a ver' bad girl. It is in my blood to hate where I love.'”
“It's all right,” he mumbled. “I didn't tell. He guessed it all after you ran away from the cabin. You're all right, Maria; but for God's sake let's get out of this trap!”
“Come along! Come along!” harshly called the mountain man. “Want them to be piling in here and bagging you two like a brace of quails?”
“It was not for the gold, but ask you to forgeeve,” she whispered, as they made to obey the summons; and she hurled the last nugget among the trees and walked with bowed head before him.
Old Misery was making a selection from the supplies brought from Grass Valley. Without waiting to be told the girl brought up the mule and deftly arranged the small pack, to which the mountain man added a generous supply of blankets. When all was ready he ordered:
“Go inside, Maria, and get your grandpap.”
She was gone several minutes and Misery was softly cursing when she reappeared alone and announced—
“Senor Comandante, he is not in there.”
“Damn a fiddle!” the mountain man exploded. “Take you all this time to see that cabin was empty? But where is he? In all the time he's lived here he's stuck like beaver-tail glue to that cabin. Gone? Call him! You can call him, can't you?”
She raised her voice in a shrill ululating cry, but though they waited and she repeated the signal several times old Miguel failed to show himself. The mountain man was worried and angry.
“Pretty works!” he growled. “Howsomever, he ain't wanted by any committee—yet. We must make a start. I reckon he'll come back here. I'll come down and fetch him. But of all the cussed notions for a blind man to take! He's heyoka.”
“Maybe he started up the hollow,” suggested the girl. “His eyes are ver' poor, but his feet can follow a trail. In the cabin he asked where we would go and I said up this valley. We will find him somewhere ahead. Is it not?”
Fuming and fretting at the unaccountable disappearance of the Mexican, the mountain man aroused Bill Williams from his lair under the ledge and took the lead. But they saw no signs of old Miguel. Now feeling safe against a surprise visit, Misery halted and said:
“See here, younkers. That old fool's plumb lost. If he come this far he tried to leave the valley and he couldn't find any path. Feet couldn't tell him anything. Maria, you know the way to the basin. Take Double-Time up there. I'll come along soon. Bill Williams will go along with you—Bill, if they need any help you lend 'em a paw.”
“Beel Williams will make a good duenna,” she laughingly replied.
And the two men wondered that she could accept the disappearance of her grandfather so lightly.
“Go ahead!" shortly commanded Old Misery.
But as the girl led the mule forward the mountain man caught Gilbert's sleeve and hoarsely whispered:
“You must think for both. She's only a little child in the form of a woman.”
“God forbid I should ever forget. I'm not as bad as that.”
“You're all right; but sometimes a man gits heyoka if he looks too long at a new moon, or into a squaw's eyes. But you're all right. Make no smokes—hark!”
The girl already had heard it and had abandoned the mule to efface herself behind a tree. Old Misery motioned for Gilbert to seek a similar hiding-place. Then he ran ahead and stood by the mule. A loud voice, sounding below them and on their left, became more audible. The mountain man's figure lost its rigidity, and in deep relief he cried:
“Just the fellers I've been hankering to see! Lawd! But ain't he lacing it to Sailor Ben!”
Now the speech of Weymouth Mass was growing intelligible, and for one so self-contained his remarks to the sailor evidenced anger.
“You worthless hunk!” boomed the deep voice. “I'll bleed you white but what I get the rum out of your veins. Just as we were about to strike it you have to pretend your luck is calling you back to Grass Hollow. You'll get no rum there, and you'll get no chance to sneak away down to the towns. I'll break both your bandy legs before I'll let them take you into temptation!”
“Avast! Heave short!” grumbled the husky voice of the sailor. “Sky—foc'sle blown to ribbons.”
“I'll 'avast' you, you deep-water scum! For two seasons you've led me a dog's life. For two seasons you've worked hard to spoil your luck when if you'd given it free rein we both would be richer than old Philadelphius, who got eighty-six million dollars together. No need of me reminding he didn't trust to no drunken old dog like you, Sailor Ben.”
“Belay! Heave-to!” growled the sailor.
They crashed from the growth, the sailor rolling ahead and Weymouth Mass striding behind him, his heavy voice pouring forth a flood of carefully enunciated objurgations. He displayed no surprise on beholding Old Misery but at once announced:
“This drink-loving reptile has tried my patience for the last time, Misery. I'm going to ham-string him.”
“Belay,” groaned the sailor, dropping on the ground and rubbing his tired legs.
Weymouth fanned himself with his hat and bitterly explained: “Deserted me in my hour of need, Misery. Deserted me just as his luck was beginning to work! We'd struck color in an old water course and he was pointing up the ridge and breathing hard—”
“Breeze fell. Luck all right,” broke in the sailor wearily. “Come in to freshen ballast.”
“You're trying to make him believe what you told me,” upbraided Weymouth Mass. “Trying to make him believe your luck was calling you back to Grass Hollow, you—you derelict!”
“Aye, aye, sir. But soft on the bad names, Cap'n.”
“There, Misery! He confesses! You can see—”
“Wait a minute,” gravely interrupted Old Misery, his eyes serious and respectful as he gazed at the sullen sailor. “That name you give Ben wa'n't called for. Weymouth, that feller's wakan witshasha. I've been hankering most keen you two would come; and here you be. Younkers, step out here.”
And Weymouth Mass and Ben were startled by the sudden appearance of Maria and Gilbert.
Old Misery hastily explained:
“Sailor Ben has proved his luck is mighty strong medicine. It's fetched you here when I needed you most. It's going to take you to some rich diggings. Always intended you should have 'em; now the time has come. And, Weymouth, when you're trailing luck don't try to hamper it. It's just like a mahopa Minnetaree. May wander and act mighty queer. But hands off, and watch it.
“This is what you must do: Go with the girl and the younker to a rocky little basin she'll take you to. Dig. Lots of nuggets. Old river bed. May lead back up the ridge to the mother-lode. I'll turn back and hunt for old Miguel. He's wandered off somewhere. When I fetch him to the basin you'll have to quit digging and go on a trip for me. Then you can come back and clean up. And after you git tired of placer-mining you can tackle that ledge where Bill Williams sleeps. It's rotten with gold. All I ask is that Peters gits a third. There's enough for you all.”
“Merciful heavens!” gasped Weymouth Mass. “Mr. Ben, I humbly apologize.”
But Ben was asleep.
Arousing the sailor, Old Misery told him to go with the girl and Gilbert. As the little procession, including Bill Williams, moved on the mountain man detained Weymouth Mass and hurriedly explained the situation, and won his promise to take the girl to Mexico, or close enough to the line to insure her against capture.
“The river gold up in the basin and the ledge in the holler will pay you for your bother,” he concluded. “And one-third for Peters.”
“Why, Misery, old friend! You don't have to pay, me. I'll take the girl to Mexico, or South America, safe and sound. As for the gold, let Ben and me have a fifth. We'll work it and turn over to you—”
“Not if you're my friend,” broke in Old Misery. “I've told you I'm going to take the younker over the ridge. He and me may wander round a bit. Feeling sorter cur'ous to see if the Forks of the Missouri look like they did when I was last up there. But I'll let you give him a little present, so's he can make a feast if he goes back home. If he turns mountain man he won't need any gold. If he does I know where to find it.”
“He'll never gamble again. I'll swear it.”
“I was thinking of women. He's too honest to be running without hobbles. A woman might make a worse fool of him than gambling ever would—good-hearted. Took care of me when he thought I was on a spree. But green, Weymouth, greener 'n you'll ever be. Now what's that streak of scarlet mean by scooting back here?”
The last referred to the sudden appearance of Maria, who was running swiftly through the timber down the slope. She was panting for breath when she came to a halt before the two men. With a gesture she requested Old Misery to step one side. When she could speak she explained:
“The sailor, Beel Williams and Senor Gilbert and the mule are waiting. I forgot to tell you something, Senor Comandante. It is about my wicked old grandfather. There is no need for you to look for him. He has gone to find Manuel Vesequio and punish him for speaking the name of Ana Benites. My grandfather is ver' angry that Vesequio should betray me to the Americanos. When he is finished in Nevada City he will come back to the hollow and make a smoke signal and I will come down the ridge and lead him up to the basin. Then for Mexico.”
“Hell! Forgot to tell me!” roared Old Misery. “You knew this all the time and kept shet!”
“My grandfather told me to say nothing. You told me to obey my grandfather when you brought me back from the bay,” she naively defended herself.
“You killed time a-purpose with them tree-nuggets to give him a chance to sneak off. And you know he's helpless and can't find his way anywhere.”
“It was his command, Senor Comandante. You have told me to obey him. It is in his blood to pay the man who betrayed me. I could not stop him if I wished. His knife burns in his sash till he wipes out that treachery. Hate will be his eyes. Hate will lead him safe to Nevada City. Love for Senor Comandante will lead him back to Grass Hollow,” she gravely argued. “I tell you this so you will not waste time hunting in the woods. By now he is far down the ridge.”
“And you held your tongue till you believed he had too much of a start to be overtaken. Even if he makes Nevada City he will stand no chance with Ching-a-ling. A blind man fighting a seeing man! Even if he stood a chance he will get there too late. Afore now one of that damned Joaquin's men has settled the breed's hash. Go back and lead them to the basin. Stay there till I come.”
He strode rapidly down the little hollow until he camp to the camp. Then he halted before the cage containing the wolf-pups and mused:
“Some root 'n' grass Injun may take your hides for leggings, but I'll give you your chance. If you've l'arned any medicine from me mebbe you'll keep clear.”
And he opened the cage and let the frisky animals go.
He watched them nose about the camp, as if uncertain as to what they should do with their freedom. Then instinct whispered to them, and with furtive, padding step they vanished in the gloomy timber. Proceeding to the cage of panther-kittens, he turned them loose. Without any hesitancy they fled to the dark growth. He walked after them a bit and tried to call them to him; but they were wild folks now and belonged to the spacious outdoors.
“Better'n selling 'em,” he muttered.
Next he visited the chained bear and examined the teeth.
“Your mouth's dangerous, younker,” he told the cub; and he unfastened the collar.
The bear made straight for the girl-bear and engaged in good-natured rough-and-tumble play. Tiring of their fun, or because the released captive associated the hollow with restricted freedom, the male trotted into the pines, the female following him.
Old Misery stared after them thoughtfully, then commented:
“Hell of a way to say good-by. Reg'lar Injuns.”
Sweeping his gaze over the deserted camp, he started on the trail of old Miguel, whose age and failing sight could never slack the inborn lust for vengeance. And as he swung down the slope he told himself:
“Just like a Comanche. Nothing but blood will wipe it out. Good camp. Easy life. All knocked to hell along of a girl's whim. Mebbe that's the way my medi cine is working to git me back over the ridge. Knew something was going to bu'st when I picked up that Tunkan rock at Illinoistown.”
And he hummed the Teton Sioux medicine song, “The Sacred Stones Come to See You,” and felt a surge of impatience to be east of the Sierra and working his way through the Humboldt Mountains to rediscover old scenes visited in his youth when he was one of General Ashley's men.
It was evening when the mountain man entered Nevada City and began his search for old Miguel. He did not care to be recognized and kept much to the shadows as he worked along toward the Chinese store, kept by Ching-a-ling.
He did not anticipate any trouble if recognized by those seeking Gilbert, and who knew that young man went up the ridge in his company. But such a meeting would necessitate leaving a false trail and a return to the little basin by a roundabout course. He was confident, however, he could enter and leave town without being recognized, and this assurance he attributed to his new rock-medicine. Only one thing worried him, the true meaning of his dream wherein he saw bloody foot-prints leaving the Grass Hollow camp.
He avoided the street crowds as much as possible, and yet soon realized there was an unusual number of men tramping along Broad and Main, often walking four abreast. At the intersections of streets large groups milled around some loud-voiced speaker.
The citizens were not indulging in a celebration but appeared much in earnest in their tramping back and forth.
No one had eyes for the gray ghost of a figure gliding from doorway to doorway, nor did Old Misery care to ask any questions. He heard angry exclamations, consisting of threats to “hang them yet,” and the like, but he did not learn the cause of the excitement until he was forced to halt by a compact mass of men blocking the street corner where he had planned to turn off and strike for the breed's store.
The aimless marching back and forth now seemed to have arrived at a common purpose, and small streams of citizens were feeding into the street to take part in a mass meeting. The gathering mob was ominously quiet, waiting for a leader.
Some one kicked a barrel into the cleared space, and a citizen leaped upon it and shouted:
“I tell you Joaquin Murieta wasn't with 'em! 'Dutch” Joe knows him by sight. He seen the raiders after they killed the two herders and drove off the hosses. They passed close by where he was hiding—”
The head of the barrel collapsed as the orator stressed his remarks with heavy stamps. Ordinarily his dropping through the barrel would have caused shouts of merriment and much derision, but the temper of the gathering was evidenced by the silence that greeted the mishap. The man crawled from the barrel and backed into the crowd.
“We're wasting too much time doing nothing,” yelled another citizen, who did not step from the ranks. “Let's do our own regulating. There's enough men in Nevada City to overtake the rascals.”
From the outskirts of the gathering some one shouted:
“Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!”
The cry was caught up and repeated as the gambler was recognized. He worked his way through the mass and stepped into the little opening. He waited for the shouting to subside, and as he waited he indulged in his old habit of shuffling coins as if they were so many cards.
“Two men have been murdered and twenty horses have been stolen,” he quietly began. “It's quite useless to chase the raiders. They have made a score of miles by this time and before you can overtake them they will scatter and make for a rendezvous. They will leave one or two men to drive the horses over the ridge into the Carson Valley.
“We want the men who killed the herders. We want the men back of them who are the brains of the outfit. I suggest that a small, well-armed and determined band of men be selected to ride south for the San Joaquin Valley, striking straight for Corral Hollow Canon on the western edge, where it's known Murieta has one of his central camps. If the bandits are not there let the posse ride on to Cantua Creek below the Fresno, where Murieta has had a big camp. A second posse should ride direct to Saw Mill Flat near the Stanislaus.
“This is work for Nevada City men. I will ride with the first posse, and Nevada City will be pleased to have any gentlemen from Marysville, Sacramento or the bay go along with us. Let half a dozen ranchers or men who knew the Sierra country between here and Carson Valley, ride to inspect the mountain passes. The stolen horses can be easily traced if prompt action is taken. They will not be strongly guarded until they reach the Carson, where there must be a strong camp.
“If any men from down the river or the bay are here I'll be glad to hear from them. We should ride at once.”
A well-dressed man advanced through the group and briefly explained:
“I was sent up here by our committee at the bay. I am a merchant and not a horseman. Several who came with me are profiting by information I have picked up and even now are on their way to arrest one of Joaquin's band, a young man, an Englishman, who aided the bandit to escape from Frisco a short time ago.
“My friends also expect to capture a woman member of the band, and from her we expect to learn enough to put an end to Murieta's deviltry. Were I a horseman I should be glad to ride south with either posse.”
“Hurrah for the committee! We'll all work together!” cried the man who had fallen through the barrel.
Mr. Peters inquired of the merchant:
“You believe your information is correct? That you're not arousing false hopes?”
“Positive. Men sent out ahead of me learned certain things, but could get nowhere. On the way up I met one of your citizens, a James Pipps; he was in bonanza and going home. Without realizing the importance of his talk—he had been drinking—he told things that allowed me to put all our information together. I can assure you that within two days my friends will ride into Nevada City with two important prisoners.”
Old Misery saw Mr. Peters back into the crowd and disappear. Many questions were hurled at the San Francisco merchant. Men began talking in groups.
From the edge of the crowd Mr. Peters shouted:
“All men owning good horses and straight-shooting guns meet me at Kelly's lodging-house an hour before sun-up to-morrow.”
Old Misery turned to a man standing close by and asked:
“What's this all about? Whose hosses is missing? I just come along. First I've heard of it.”
“From Adams' ranch. Run off in broad daylight. Who'n hell be you?” The last was sharp with suspicion; and the stranger tugged the end of his long mustache and leaned forward to stare into the mountain man's face.
“I'm the feller who never stole any hosses,” meekly replied Old Misery, backing away.
The man instantly shouted:
“This way! One of the thieves 'n' murderers right here! I've got him!”
Those nearest blocked Old Misery's retreat. The stranger leaped forward and clutched the fringed cape of the hunting-shirt, but quickly became immobile as he felt the muzzle of a navy Colt pressed against his stomach. The two were hedged in by citizens.
Without removing his gaze from the fellow's startled visage the mountain man called out:
“Some of you know me. Peters is my friend. Fetch him, and he'll tell you all that I ain't stealing any hosses this season; just selling bars.”
“I know him. He's Old Misery,” spoke up a storekeeper. “He's the grizzly-bear man. He's all right.”
“Mr. Peters! Mr. Peters!” yelled a dozen voices.
The gambler must have lingered in the crowd after calling for a rendezvous of horsemen, for he quickly came plowing his way forward. And he must have heard the storekeeper's endorsement, for without asking any questions he clapped a hand on the mountain man's shoulder and loudly declared:
“This man is my friend. He's all right. All white and a yard wide.”
“Thanky kindly, Peters,” said Old Misery. “But who's this cuss who's so mighty pert to name me a hoss-thief? Mebbe you'd best look him up a bit and see where he trails in here from.”
“You cut the ace! Who knows this man?” demanded the gambler.
Old Misery belted his gun and grinned sardonically at his perturbed accuser. Face after face was thrust forward, and man after man denied having ever seen the fellow.
“Search him!” directed Mr. Peters.
The man was dragged to a lighted window and his pockets emptied. There was nothing found of an incriminating nature except two gold rings, plain bands like wedding rings. These were tried on his fingers and were found to be much too small.
Before he could be questioned he hoarsely declared:
“I bought 'em for my woman. Man said he was hard up and would sell 'em cheap. That's Gawd's truth.”
“Your neck depends on your being able to prove it,” grimly the gambler informed him. “Put him in a strong room. We'll find out later where he was when the ranch was raided, and where his woman lives.”
“I don't know anything about the ranch except what I've heard here to-night,” cried the stranger. “Then this old feller that looks like a hoss-thief—”
With a wild whoop Old Misery leaped upon him and would have beaten him to the ground had not the onlookers pulled him back.
“I'll have his ha'r!” cried the mountain man. “Peters, I'll have that skunk's mangy fur, I'm telling you!”
“Be quiet and be good,” commanded the gambler, drawing him away. “You take a walk and cool your blood. No street brawling here till after the fellow's let loose. Then comb him if you want to.”
And as if to get his friend away before he could renew his assault on the stranger—now being hustled to a place of safekeeping—the gambler led Old Misery out of hearing and announced:
“Hell's to pay!”
“I heard the man from the bay talk,” said Old Misery. “But his friends won't find even a tame wolf-pup at my camp. Everything cleaned out.”
“Whew! That's good hearing. I was sweating blood when that Frisco man was talking. Trying to find some one in the crowd I could trust to send up the ridge with a warning to you when you had that rumpus. It's true; they're hot foot after young Ounce-Diggings and that girl. By this time the Frisco storekeeper has learned who you are, and he'll probably blab to some of the men that his friends are riding for your camp and that you're a man to be trailed. They'll comb that camp and surrounding country for the two youngsters.”
“Like hell!” jeered Old Misery. “Might as well search the Rockies for a bullet some one lost there two years ago. As for trailing me, they want to make a new medicine first. Now, listen: I come here to find old Miguel.”
And he briefly explained Ching-a-ling's treachery and the Mexican's errand to the town.
“Haven't seen him. Scarcely any one here knows him. But if he comes to town he'll be locked up. Every greaser is under suspicion on account of the double murder at Adams' rancho. I didn't know Ching-a-ling had betrayed the girl. Supposed he had blabbed on the youngster. And I didn't know that till to-night as I've been down to Marysville for a few days.”
“Miguel will try to git at Ching-a-ling.”
“No use. He's staying in his store mighty close, scared blue, and two men are guarding him. He was promised protection if he would tell what he knew. Your Mexican can't get at him. You must steal away. They'll try to trail you.”
“Reckon I'm on a fool hunt,” muttered Old Misery. “Blind old cuss would have hard work getting down here, let alone finding the breed's place. He's like a Comanche; only blood will rub it out. I'll be mizzling afore more folks can call me a thief. Walk along a bit till I can scoot.”
The excitement attending the arrest and imprisonment of the stranger afforded them cover for a retreat. They turned a corner, and Mr. Peters rubbed his eyes and discovered he was walking alone.
With a foolish grin he turned back and was soon met by the San Francisco merchant, who hurriedly asked:
“Where's your aged friend? It's very important I should speak to him.”
“Gone. Started back home. Anything I can tell you?”
“He should know he has been harboring two persons, man and woman, who are wanted for being members of Murieta's band.”
“Then why in the hell didn't you tell us that when you and your friends first arrived here?”
“Well, it would have been better if we'd told you,” admitted the merchant. “But Murieta has so many spies in the camps and towns that we feared word would be sent that our men were on the trail.”
In the meanwhile Old Misery was groping his way along the rear of several stores, working around and between empty barrels and boxes and mounds of bottles and discarded clothing, his line of advance taking him toward the back end of the Chinese store.
It was dark, and he dared not risk discovery by attempting haste. At last he halted at the back of the store. He ran his hands over the boards but found no door. Creeping to the corner, he peered around and toward the street. Near him was a man seated on a box. As he watched the man called out:
“Slow work, Tim. Wish they'd relieve us, or bring us a drink.”
A voice in front of the store replied:
“The yellow rat doesn't deserve to be protected. Giving away a woman's mighty poor business.”
Old Misery decided he had made every effort and should be retiring. But to return up the ridge and report to the girl that he had found no signs of old Miguel was difficult for him to do. He sat down and weighed the situation carefully. If the old man had entered the town he would have been locked up, and Mr. Peters would have known that fact. Either he had lost his way entirely, or was entering under cover of night. If the latter, he would make for the store.
The side door was unbolted, and Old Misery returned to the corner. He heard the breed in English invite:
“Will not my brave guards have a drink from the bottle? It is the best brandy in California. Guards should be alert, but one drink can not harm.”
“Go to hell!” growled the guard who had complained of being “dry.”
The door softly closed, then opened, and the breed was anxiously asking:
“Why are they shouting? I hear men shouting.”
Old Misery was also hearing it, a confusion of many voices from the center of the town. The man in front of the store called out:
“Something's bu'sted loose, Charley. We're missing some fun.”
“Maybe it's a fire, Tim.”
And the guard at the side door rose and walked toward Misery. The mountain man barely had time to retire behind a barrel before “Charley” was at the corner, staring about for a red glare.
Several pistol shots rang out, followed by wild outcries. Charley turned and ran rapidly to the front of the store. Old Misery was impatient to witness the excitement, but prudence warned him to avoid recognition as he must be out of the town traveling back to the hidden basin before daylight.
The yelling of many voices continued, and there came a second ragged volley of pistol shots. The clamor was approaching the store, and thudding through it sounded the hoofs of a galloping horse. From the corner of the building the mountain man saw the two guards run into the road and call on a horseman to halt. Two quick reports was their answer, and the rider was spurring his steed up the eastern slope.
A mob of infuriated citizens swept up the street. The foremost found Tim cursing violently and nursing a broken arm, while his companion was trying to explain that only surprise stopped him from returning the horseman's fire.
That Ching-a-ling was much alarmed by the shouting and shooting was suggested to Old Misery as he heard a sharp outcry from inside the store. The van of the mob sped on, the front line emptying their revolvers into the darkness ahead. From the broken talk of those who followed to witness the stirring chase Old Misery at his corner overheard enough to understand the situation. His accuser had made a bold dash for liberty and had escaped on another man's horse.
“Clever cuss' Out-Injuned 'em,” he murmured.
That Ching-a-ling's nerves were badly frayed was further evidenced by a heavy crash inside the store. Then the mountain man realized that the guards had left their posts without being relieved.
“I promised him what I'd do if he bothered her,” muttered Old Misery. “He give the girl away. She was living straight. He give her away, and she must go back to Murieta's crowd. And I told him what I'd do if he troubled her again. I'll give him a square show, and that's more'n he gave her, or ever gave any man, woman or child. But he didn't oughter be turned loose to hurt other folks.”
And he crept along the building to the side door.
The street in front of the store was thick with excited men and women. Old Misery drew his knife and leaned against the door and watched to see that none was looking his way. He heard a slight noise beyond the thin boards. It sounded as if Ching-a-ling was crouching there and trying to subdue his heavy breathing. Thinking the man was about to come out, the mountain man drew aside.
A minute passed and nothing happened.
He slowly counted sixty, then reached up and tried the catch and felt the door give. He pushed it gently inward, but it would open only part way. There was no pressure to close it. He reached his arm around the door, and his fingers closed on something. Drawing it forth, his sense of touch identified it as a big Mexican hat.
Then the truth flashed home. With no further hesitation he rose and slipped through the narrow aperture and with the toe of his moccasin located the owner of the hat. The figure was inert, and he knew the man was dead. There remained the victor; and now the mountain man drew his knife again and knew he must keep his promise to Ching-a-ling, or die.
Moving noiselessly he passed into the living-room back of the store. Odors of musk and Oriental scents offend ed his nostrils. With his knife advanced and revolving in a narrow circle, with his free hand holding his hat out one side to ward off an attack from that direction, he sidled along the wall, moving to the left. His foot touched some object.
He waited several minutes and could hear no sound except his own soft, slow breathing. He did not believe any human being could remain cooped up with him in such close quarters without betraying his presence. His nostrils twitched, again offended. Suddenly he stooped and with his free hand felt of the object his foot had hit. It was a parcel wrapped in a cloth, and by the fringe he decided the covering was a shawl. Throwing back the corners of the shawl, he investigated with light fingers, and with the first contact he was standing erect and exclaiming under his breath:
“The bloody-minded devil! Just like a Comanche! Only blood could rub it out. They fit to the death in the darkness, neither having any 'vantage! But to cut off his head and planning to take it away in a shawl!”
Without any further attempt at stealth he located the decapitated remains of Ching-a-ling. Old Miguel had completed his business despite the guards. Returning to the side entrance, the mountain man swiftly brushed his fingers over the wrinkled face of the Mexican. The knife was still clutched in the lifeless hand. Misery's searching fingers found three fearful stab-wounds; one in the side and two in the chest. And yet the former outlaw had willed to live until he had slain the breed and had hacked off his head!
By the time he had regained the street and was hurrying away from the town the mountain man had reconstructed the horrible tragedy. The old Mexican had cunningly timed his arrival. In some way he had located the store and had learned that two guards were posted there. With the patience of an Indian he had waited. He had seized the first opportunity—when the guards were in front of the store to learn the cause of the shooting—and had entered by the side door.
He had found the breed in the dark room and had received three thrusts before giving the mortal stroke. Ching-a-ling had cried out on discovering the identity of his visitor, or else when meeting death. Old Miguel, although rapidly bleeding to death, had carried through his gruesome program. In making for the door he had lurched against something and knocked it over. He had collapsed at the door, and it was his last gasping breath that Old Misery had heard.
“Pretty works!” muttered Old Misery. “And what'll Nevada City think when it finds the two of 'em?”