Old Misery/Chapter 11

NAKE MARTIN lounged on the ground apart from his men, his beady eyes glowing evilly as he stared at Everick, who was stretched on blankets some dozen paces from the cabin door. The leader's gaze became speculative as it shifted to Old Misery and Gilbert, seated under a ragged pine. The young man was reading from a book, and Old Misery appeared to be deeply interested, for he had allowed his pipe to go out.

“Good men for me if the old one wasn't brash,” mused Martin. “I could cut his comb, but I'd have to cut his throat first.”

He rose to his feet, strolled over to the pine and remarked:

“I'll share the shade with you.”

Old Misery glanced up impatiently and replied:

“Then squat and keep shet. This is a winter count of the four worst-acting devils you ever heard tell 'bout. Making love and fighting their bigness all over a place called France. Git along, younker. Break the trail to the next scrimmage.”

Although much agitated by the presence of the terrible little man Gilbert managed to control his voice and resume the adventures of “D'Artagnan” and his three friends. Martin listened appreciatively and soon got the atmosphere of the story. He sat with head cocked to one side, his fingers idly snapping dead twigs and methodically arranging them in little piles between his legs. At first Gilbert was ill at ease; then the narrative gripped him and he forgot his peril in following the bold deeds of the irrepressible quartet.

As he finished a chapter and paused to rest his throat Old Misery cried:

“If they wasn't he-hellions then I never swapped lead with a Blackfoot! And I'd 'lowed this was the only place left where they'd fetch you a good fight! If it wa'n't for the ocean I'd like to go over there and watch the fun. Four humdingers, and always hungry for a fuss!”

“What do you think of it, what little you've heard, Mr. Martin?” Gilbert politely inquired.

“I like it,” readily answered Martin, his small eyes snapping. “Mighty clever the way the young fellow read the signs left by the horses. I wouldn't want him to be tracking me. I must tell the men to save all books after this.”

Old Misery filled his pipe and informed Martin:

“The younker can't read all the time. Not 'nough book and not 'nough throat. We're feeling rather cramped. We want to be walking 'bout a bit.”

Martin pulled Gilbert's pocket-knife from his pocket and shaved a dead branch to a needle point and stared thoughtfully at the mountain man. Finally he said:

“You're free to move around in this valley. You have no weapons, no food. You'd be fools to try and run away. If you act the fool you'll be caught and shot in your tracks. If you're not back here two hours before sundown my men start after you with orders to bury you where they find you.”

“You blood-thirsty little cuss" Old Misery cried admiringly. “You'd do just as you say. And that's the worst of it. But folks' idees about time don't always hitch. S'pose you fire two shots when it's time for us to be showing in the open? The younker here believes things happen in the East hours before they happen here, and yet happen just the same time. Only weak spot in him.”

“Difference in time? I supposed every one understood that. Very well; when you hear two shots, close together, you show yourselves in the opening.”

“How's the big ox gitting along?” inquired Misery as he rose to his feet and glanced at Everick.

“José did a good job setting the bones. When he's able to travel he leaves us.”

“Too bad. Best fighting man you've got at that. Sort of hard on him,” remarked the mountain man.

“I told him to get you, and he didn't obey orders,” whined Martin; then, with a shrill laugh, added: “But he's keen to go. He's always been rough with the men. Too many of them holding grudges against him for him to stay on with us. They know his spirit's been broken, and there's half a dozen knives all sharpened for him. I shall have to scheme a little to give him a fair start.”

“That's a fine spirit for a fighting crowd!” heartily endorsed Old Misery. “You've got a mighty good outfit. Man to man they'll stack up better'n Joaquin's. Take him away and Three-Fingered Jack, and the rest are so many rabbits. More I see of this outfit the more I know I'm going to like it. Nothing like a little roughness to sweeten life. Do they ever settle a argument with knives, left arms tied together? A good way, as there's never no doubt 'bout the winner. And some mighty funny things always happen when two men git to whirling round, each trying to get behind t'other.”

“I've tried it twice. It works well,” quietly replied Martin, replacing the knife and dusting his hands. “A small man has a better show than a big man in that style of fighting.”

“You little throat-cutting cuss! Damn me, if I don't like you!” exploded Old Misery. “No need of firing signal-shots. I wouldn't leave this outfit for the best wagon-train ever robbed and burned!”

Martin's brows went up, likewise his thin lips; and the long nose seemed to creep down. But all he said was:

“Brother Joaquin might not like it if I stole two of his best men. Don't forget the signal-shots. They mark the difference between living and dying. If you're on time we'll hear some more of the young man's reading. After the rest of my men arrive with the horses I'll have but little time for pleasure.”

As he walked toward the cabin Old Misery stared after him with round, wide eyes. Then he spat and hissed:

“The pizen snake! He's named right! We've got two big jobs ahead of us. To make him feel like letting us live, but to be keen for us to sing a travel-song and git out. Come along, younker.”

“Can we run for it?” eagerly whispered Gilbert.

“Without guns or grub? No, no. We can't go back over the ridge, and the road east is through a bad country. But remember this: Snake Martin is as bad a fiend as Joaquin Murieta. He'll kill just as quick, and he'll never give t'other feller any show at all. You saw them bows and arrers in the cabin? I got hold of one last night long enough to see it never was made by a Injun. They're 'nough to show me what sort of hellions we've stumbled on to. Murieta hates 'Mericans. He come to the gold-fields in 'forty-nine, when he was only eighteen. Worked north from Los Angeles into the Stanislaus country and located a rich placer.

“Gold-hunters, always trying to boss greasers round, ordered him out, and he quit. Then it was said he stole a horse he happened to be riding. Joaquin said it was his half-brother's hoss. So they hung the half-brother and tied Joaquin to the same tree and laid on the whip. Then he begun robbing and murdering. Killed any one he come across except Mexicans. They're all his friends. But he sticks by his friends. He keeps his word, I believe. I saved his life, not knowing who he was, and he wrote his name on that monte-card to show I wasn't to be robbed or killed. But he's bad. He's got to be killed.

“Now Snake Martin never was whipped that I know of. He's 'Merican blood, and he kills 'Mericans. Them bows 'n' arrers tell me he rigs his men up like Injuns and raids wagon-trains. Leaves arrers in the dead. If any one gits away from the train he'll say Injuns did it. Then the Utes are blamed. So, in a way, he's worse'n Murieta.”

“But what will become of us? We can't even pretend to join them,” muttered Gilbert as they walked along the edge of the growth.

“A man can pretend almost anything up to a certain p'int,” mumbled Old Misery, his gaze troubled as he glanced at his melancholy companion. “My rock-medicine has been all right so far. It covered both of us in my fight with the big ox. Didn't really need any medicine to best him—I take that back. I needed it powerful bad.”

Then in a low whisper, as if fearing Tunkan might overhear and resent, he explained:

“No good to talk light 'bout any medicine. A medicine is mighty techy. More so if it's a strong one.”

And thoroughly to appease the god of the rocks he loudly declared:

“I'll make a feast to Tunkan. I'll place rocks in trees in the first rock-medicine place I come to.”

And he hummed a Sacred Stone song and turned deeper into the growth.

Once under cover he halted and motioned for Gilbert to crouch low and look back. Three men, carrying rifles, were leaving the cabin. Two were making for the growth on the prisoners' side of the valley. The other was entering the timber on the opposite side.

“They're following to murder us!” gasped Gilbert, the black wings sounding very close.

“They'd all be coming along this side if that was their notion. Martin sends 'em to dog our steps. Now if you was Tobin we'd lay for them two and take their guns and hustle round and bag the third man, and then hold up the cabin and clean out the whole gang. As it is you 'n' me might jump the two and do for 'em and take their guns and run for it! But that wouldn't give us hosses, or grub. Besides, Solid Comfort is back in the cabin, and it's a wakan gun and I won't leave it. We'll trail along a bit and let 'em pass us.”

When near the end of the valley the mountain man halted in a group of stunted pines. Soon they heard steps and low voices, and Old Misery grinned and whispered:

“A wounded buff'ler could out-Injun 'em.”

The two men came up, moving slowly and without any pretense at woodcraft. Nor were they interested in their business of spying on the prisoners. They took advantage of their isolation from the band to halt near the pines and exchange confidences. One of them was saying:

“Don't care so far as Everick's concerned. But if he's told to ride for it, then any one of us can be booted out.”

“Well, he was licked. He'll be no good after this,” growled the second man. “And he won't ride far if I can git the drop on him.”

“That ain't it. The chief shows his disposition in booting him out. What about Everick's share that the chief's hid somewhere and says he's going to divide with the gang when we split up?”

“Everick don't git it. He don't git nothing,” rejoiced the second man.

“We don't want him to get it. But do we get our share? That's the point. No one knows where it's hid except the chief. Bernie, the Frenchman, knew. He helped bury it. But Bernie's dead. I'm mighty sorry Bernie cashed in.”

“The derned fool would keep filled up on whisky,” grumbled the second man.

“True. But he was a man who always kept filled up on whisky. Queer it should kill him just as it did. Maybe he worked so hard in hiding the stuff to weaken his heart.”

Suspicion at last had found lodgment in the second man's slow wits, and he glared at his companion wildly and exclaimed:

“Good lord, Bommer! You mean—”

“I don't mean a thing,” hastily interrupted Bommer. “You just remember I haven't said a thing, Somes. I've talked more with you than with any of the others, but even now I don't know as I know you well enough to say things.”

“Bommer, I can be trusted. I never shoot off my mouth,” Somes hoarsely assured him. “We're alone. You talk. I'd die before I'd whisper a word.”

Bommer stared at his companion searchingly for a few moments and then reminded him:

“Chief would kill me for what little I've said already, Somes. You're the only man I'd tell what little I've already said. But I did you a good turn once, and I don't believe you'd—”

“Not for all the gold that ever was stole,” eagerly broke in Somes. “I ain't quick at thinking, but I ain't no snake. You talk. You do the thinking and tell me what to do. There's a share of that stuff that's coming to me, and by the lord I'm going to have it, or die in my boots!”

“Not so loud,” cautioned Bommer. “Ike will be coming round from the other side. No one in the gang knows where the stuff's hid now that Bernie's dead—from drinking whisky—and arsenic.”

Somes scratched his head, then scowled malignantly and gritted: “Snake Martin ain't got no charmed life!”

“Ah, Somes, you're mistaken. He has. No one in the gang will want him dead until it's known where the stuff is hid. Everick loses his share. The rest of us already have lost our shares unless we find the hiding place.”

“Ain't there 'nough of the boys to corner him and burn it out of him,” demanded Somes in a thick voice.

Bommer smiled wickedly and reminded him:

“If we did that, then we'd sit down, with guns handy, to divide in equal shares. Probably there would be some fighting. Every man dead would mean so much more for those left alive. But suppose you and I learn where it's hidden. How many shares would there be then?”

Somes gaped at him blankly for a moment, then began to grin as intelligence percolated to his slow brain. The grin became a silent laugh, a paroxysm of noiseless mirth, and he leaned against a tree. When he could speak he softly cried:

“You've got a head, Bommer! Comes of having a eddication. Two shares, of course, just you 'n' me!”

And he resumed his silent laughing.

“Stop it!” warned Bommer. “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Don't try to talk to me before the others. Some time the chief will visit the hiding-place. It's near here. He and Bernie were gone only a few hours from the cabin. He probably kept away that long to make us think they had traveled some distance. But the pack-mule hadn't wet a hair. I was quick to see that much.”

“Eddication again!” enthusiastically murmured Somes.

“This game is about up. Once Murieta goes under we'll stop running off stock. While he lives and takes the blame we can keep on buying from him and stealing direct. Murieta can't last much longer. They're bound to get him. When we can't steal stock we must bu'st up. The other line is too dangerous. Wagon-trains will come through heavily guarded. Just keep your eyes open and tell me what you see. I'll do the thinking.”

They resumed their trailing. Old Misery rose and held a finger to his lips and led the way back toward the east and deeper into the growth. They came to a little natural opening, of not more than two acres in ex tent, and threw themselves on the ground. Gilbert's gaze wandered to several mounds in the middle of the glade, and with a little shiver he exclaimed:

“Folks are buried there. Poor unfortunates. Wonder who they were!”

“Too many such out this way for a man to spend his time guessing who's in 'em,” muttered the mountain man. “You heard what them two men said? Martin's a slipperier cuss then I thought. He's corralled all the gang's stealings, and no one wants him dead till they find out where the stuff's hid. The man Bommer prob'ly had the right of it in thinking they hid the stuff near the cabin, then killed a few hours.”

“And the Frenchman is dead!”

“Most naturally. His bad luck in helping to hide the stuff. Pizened by Martin. I'll keep an eye on that skunk. This gang's going to bu'st up soon. We mustn't be hit by any of the pieces. We've got to get away, but not make it a running fight less we have to. They've got to think we're bad ones. We must make Martin hanker to be rid of us without killing us. No matter what I do, or say, you sit tight. It's a bad mess. Worse'n I thought at first. But I started to make a mountain man out of you, and I'll do it if I have to make hell hoot and hum. Now take out that book and make believe you're reading to me. Don't look round. We'll soon have comp'ny.”

Gilbert pulled out his story-book and began reading in an undertone. Old Misery, lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, from the corner of his eye watched the figure of a man standing at the edge of the growth on his right.

“He ain't in hearing of us,” he murmured. “And he ain't either of them two who was trailing us like a yoke of cattle. Just keep on reading and act a little s'prised if he comes up.”

Several minutes passed; then a soft step sounded behind them, and the mountain man came to a sitting posture and turned and beheld Snake Martin. The outlaw leader dropped to the ground, sitting cross-legged, and remarked:

“You didn't walk very far?”

“Nearly to the end of the valley. Then turned back. Felt sort of crowded down there. Wanted to be alone.”

“Some of my men, eh? But I gave them orders not to bother you.”

“They didn't. This opening oughter graze a few hosses.”

Martin pulled out Gilbert's knife and began sharpening twigs, and remarked:

“Men don't like this place. Superstitious fools. Afraid of a few graves. So we pasture the stock in an opening south of the valley. We plan to keep only our riding-horses in the valley.”

Old Misery stirred uneasily and confessed:

“I don't like graves. Don't mind a man drying in a tree, but to be put under ground! That's 'nough to make any ghost git up on his hind legs and hoot. I'm just like a Crow in that way; never want to be hid under ground. They some of your men?”

“Some of the Donner party,” replied Martin in his high-pitched voice. “I've lost no men here. Those dropped out on a raid are left for others to bury. We haven't time. But we've been lucky. Lost only four men in two seasons. If I kept them on the other side of the ridge where they could get to a town they'd all be killed off in one season. This makes a good camp for us.”

“A humdinger,” agreed the mountain man. “No one to bother you except a prospector now 'n' then, I s'pose.”

Martin smiled in his peculiar manner and shrilly as sured Misery: “They don't bother us.”

“Good place. I like it,” mumbled Misery. “Sorter grows on a man. Our time nearly up?”

Martin glanced at the sun and decided: “It'll be an hour before the cook gives the signal.”

With that he rose and carefully brushed his clothes and put up the knife.

Old Misery also stood and decided:

“Reckon we'd best walk back with you. Cook's idee of time and yours might not hitch. And them fellers in the woods might think we was ghosts and go to blazing at us if they saw us quitting this place.”

“Perhaps you'd be safer if you rested on the other side of the valley,” said Martin. “The men get nervous.”

He led the way but did not, the mountain man observed, take a direct course. He traveled east through the growth and left it at a point a short distance back of the log house. As the three approached the house Bommer and Somes emerged from the south side of the valley, having all but traveled around it. A minute later the third man came out of the growth on the north side.

Old Misery and Gilbert were greeted with sullen glances as they seated themselves near the open door.

Martin walked over to Everick and told him:

“You'll have to bunk out here. Your damnable groaning keeps the men awake.” Then he turned to the swarthy Mexican, who had been examining the splints on the leg and arm.

“Hurry him along, José, so he can sit in a saddle. We may be taking a ride soon and have to leave him alone.”

“Sí, Senor. He is doing ver' well,” humbly replied the Mexican.

“But, Chief Just a minute,” loudly pleaded Everick. “Hoss 'n' gun ain't 'nough. I brought that much to the band. I've worked hard for you. But you don't say nothing about my share—”

Bommer nudged Somes in the ribs. Martin pushed the Mexican back and dropped on his knees beside the wounded man. Bending over him, he talked rapidly in a shrill, whining tone. None but Everick heard what he said, but all knew the menace of that wailing, whining voice. When he rose and brushed his knees and leisurely started for the house Everick did not endeavor to detain him. José glided to his patient and observed that the broad face was dotted with perspiration.

Martin halted before the group, flicked a swift glance over the stolid, bearded faces, and with a laugh informed them:

“Now that he knows he must go he can't go quick enough. He'd try to ride to-night if I'd say the word.”

Turning, he called out: “Isn't that the case, Everick?”

“Yes, yes!” groaned the wounded man. “For God's sake, let me go now!”

“You men see how glad he is to leave us,” resumed Martin, and the long, thin nose seemed to be creeping down over the upcurved lips. “But we must look out for Everick and keep him till he's able to ride. We must be fair with Everick. We mustn't be too harsh in judging him. It's true he failed when he should have won. But we had overestimated him. We must try to believe he did all he could. However, we have no room for him. He must go. Already he's out of the band. That means none of you have any truck with him, no more'n if he was a stranger. José will wait on him and tell me if any man breaks the rules.”

Bommer drove his elbow into Somes' side. The others remained stolid of face.

Martin entered the house and called out: “Time to take a drink.”

The men filed through the doorway.

Old Misery whispered to Gilbert:

“Don't git the notion I'm on the rampage after I take a few snorts. No matter what I do, it's just my game. We've got to git out of here quick. Martin lied about the graves. None of the Donner party was down this far. None was buried down here. They weren't trapped till they got up on the Truckee. My medicine tells me I must do two things; make 'em think we're what we claim to be—Joaquin's men; and make 'em keen to have us clear out.”

He came to his feet and sounded a ringing war-whoop and bustled through the doorway. The men holding filled dippers, or in the act of filling them, stared at him wrathfully. He grinned benignly and told Jason of the exposed teeth:

“Don't look sour at me, old hoss-fly. Boss called for the thirsty to gather, and I'm dryer'n a patch of alkali. Some one gimme a dipper.”

It was Snake Martin who accommodated him. His small eyes were points of fire as he stared at the mountain man.

Old Misery poured a big drink and demanded:

“What are we waiting for? Nothing wrong with the drink is there?”

Bommer's hand twitched and slopped out some of the liquor.

Old Misery continued: “Here's to a fat season, with a fat share to every man.”

Some started to drink, including Bommer and Somes.

Jason remarked: “It's the first I've heard tell you was one of us.”

“I was just wishing you well. You'll all need good wishes afore the season's over. If the younker 'n' me ain't in the gang we will be soon.”

Martin softly inquired: “Why do you think that?”

“I don't 'think.' I know,” stoutly replied Misery. “Lawdy! But you fellers need new blood. Same lot of you been so long together that you're splitting up in pairs. Every pair is feeling harsh toward the rest. You need new men to jumble you all together in one happy, band again. But the 'new men' must be men you can count on to toe the mark. I've rid with Joaquin. I'm a he-grizzly b'ar.

“My partner saved Joaquin's life. He's a reg'lar panther prowling round to make a kill. We had to light out and leave Joaquin. He'd be glad to have us back. But we knew it was time for us to pull out. Trouble with you folks is you're tied up too close to him. It's bad medicine.”

“Stop your ranting and tell what you mean by that last,” shrilly demanded Martin.

“Meaning you'll bu'st to pieces when Joaquin's potted if you don't make new trails. You oughter quit waiting for him to steal hosses and turn 'em over to you. Oughter quit working for him and work for yourselves. Oughter have a good camp up on the ridge, north of the Truckee. Then you'd be fixed so's you could make quick raids down to the towns and back to camp. If a posse stumbled on your camp you could fall back to this side of the ridge to this place. Then go up the slope when the posse went back to town. There's too much waiting in the way you fellers play the game.”

Snake Martin's voice sounded faint and thin as he assured Misery:

“My friend, there will not be much more waiting. Be patient.”

“H'ray! Knew you was sensible. Bad for a gang to have too much time on its hands. Men git out of temper and sour. Lots of action and blooding needed to keep a parcel of men up to top-notch. That liquor's wakan. It makes my toes curl. Let's have 'nother snort and go outside and have some fun. Time passes like a mortal wounded buf'ler when we just squat and do nothing.”

“Be patient,” repeated Martin. “There'll not be much more waiting.”

The thieves exchanged significant glances, and several smiled furtively as they believed they had caught their leader's hidden meaning. Their manner changed, and instead of lowering on the mountain man they now smiled wolfishly and grinned much; and they nodded ironically to him as they lifted their dippers, as if wishing him health and happiness.

Of all the group only Bommer agreed with the mountain man's opinion. Ever since returning with Somes from the woods he had been trying to understand how the two strangers had eluded him. As he sensed the chief's hostility to the newcomers he discovered his own feelings were almost sympathetic.

The second drink seemed to have a quick effect on the mountain man. He commenced a shuffling dance, and on reaching the pile of bows and arrows he picked up a bow and snatched an arrow from the quiver.

Instantly Martin had him covered with a revolver and was crying: “Drop that!”

With a foolish grin Old Misery discarded the weapons and complained:

“Not an ounce of fun in the whole outfit. Think I was going to hold you up with a bow 'n' arrer?”

“Never mind what I thought. No more drinking, boys.”

Then back to Old Misery—

“First thing you know you'll stir up more fun than you can take care of.”

“Mebbe,” cheerfully admitted Misery. “But it'll be because I don't have a square shake. Just ask Joaquin Murieta what he thinks of me. He'll tell you I can lick a tribe of panthers in a knife-scrimmage, steal more hosses then you ever grazed in these parts; and that I've tossed away more dust than you folks ever stole.”

Again the veins over the leader's temples stood out like whipcords, and his men were quick to read the sign and give ground. Those nearest the door slipped out.

Martin's voice was so faint as to be scarcely audible as he told Misery:

“Damn you and your gall! You're digging your grave with your tongue. Think my boys, or I, will stand for such high talk much longer?”

“High talk?” scoffed the mountain man. “Why, I ain't said a word yet that I can't make good. Ask Murieta what he thinks of Old Man Trouble-Hunter. Ask any of his men how many thousands in dust I've tossed away to them that needed. Ask—”

His repeated reference to his generosity enraged Martin to the breaking-point; and with a hissing intake of breath he yanked a gun from his trousers and slowly brought it down, full-cocked. Gilbert, staring through the window, held his fist to his mouth to keep from screaming in terror.

Bommer hoarsely ventured:

“The old fool is drunk, Chief.”

With a swing of his head Martin whined:

“Damn you, Bommer! Fingers in my dish? I don't like it. You boys know I don't like it.”

And even Bommer's eyes fell before the flaming glance.

“I am mato wapiya—grizzly b'ar medicine,” shouted Old Misery. “Reckon I'll give the b'ar dance.”

And as Martin was resuming his threatening pose the mountain man dropped his hands before him and commenced an awkward, ludicrous dance, his head rolling from side to side, as tame bears in the coast towns were taught to do. Martin stood rigid, the revolver aimed, but the antics of the grotesque figure caused the onlookers to forget the impending tragedy, and furtive smiles grew into broad grins as the mountain man assumed the double rôle of trainer and animal, and gave orders and obeyed them.

With a terrible oath, but spoken in a peevish falsetto, Martin thrust his gun into his waistband and complained—

“I can't shoot the old fool when he's drunk; but I will when he's sober.”

“Here comes a man riding hard!” yelled Gilbert at the window.

Martin, followed by all in the cabin, hurriedly passed outside. The newcomer was riding at a smart gallop, but not pressing his mount. Somes was the first to recognize him and called out:

“Reelfoot Williams!”

Martin advanced toward the outlaw and waved his hand in greeting. Obviously he held Williams in some esteem. The bandit leaped from his horse and shook hands with Martin and nodded genially to the men. The latter admired him for being a lone worker and one who could take desperate chances.

When Williams' gaze lighted on Old Misery he looked the surprise he was feeling, and exclaimed:

“You here, old man? Well, I'm not trying to hold you up again.”

And he laughed at his recollections.

“You know this man, Reelfoot?” eagerly asked Martin.

“Know him? Not long since I held him up on the ridge about Nevada City. He had a rare bag of nuggets. And what do you think? I didn't take it.”

And he laughed more heartily.

“No, no. They were not for Reelfoot Williams. Met Rattlesnake Dick right after to work in harness for a big pot. Told him about it. And he said the same. He wouldn't 'a' touched them if he'd stood in my boots. Remember, old man, what I said? 'Not any for me, thank you.' Good joke on me, Martin. There I had dogged him from town, where he'd been giving nuggets to Chinamen, and then I held him up and opened his bag of gold—and didn't take it!”

“Just what are you driving at, Reelfoot?” cried Martin, sensing a mystery and therefore feeling uneasy.

“The first thing I saw in the bag was a monte card, with 'amigo' written on it, and signed by Murieta. Joaquin's card, you know. Telling all us bold boys this man was not to be bothered. I never worked with the greaser; he does too much unnecessary killing, but I won't go out of my way to make him mad. Oh, no. The minute I saw that card I knew I didn't want any of that game. No, sir! Same old cuss who threw a lariat around Murieta and pulled him out the American when he was about to drown. But how comes it he is on this side the ridge? Quit Murieta to take on with your boys?”

“I was just about to kill him,” softly explained Martin. “He talks too much. Makes my head ache by always telling what a hell of a fellow he is. I intended to wait and find out the truth about him, but his talk was driving me crazy just as you rode in. Came here yesterday with a young man. Done nothing since except brag how he can lick any man in any kind of a fight—”

“I can do it. It ain't bragging,” broke in Old Misery.

“There! You hear him?” wailed Martin, the veins over his temples congesting again.

It struck Reelfoot Williams as being very humorous, and he laughed loudly and clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder and drew him to one side. They talked for some minutes. When they returned to the doorway Martin's anger had vanished. He briefly announced:

“Williams speaks in his favor. Also says it's true about the young man helping Murieta escape at the bay.”

“And that he must have helped Ana Benites, one of Joaquin's band, to escape a posse,” reminded Williams. “And that Jaoquin's Nevada City spy, Vesequio, who betrayed the girl, was found with his head cut off.”

“What did I tell you folks?” proudly asked Old Misery. “Now be you ready to believe I've a right to wear eagle feathers?”

“We're believing you're entitled to horses, a mule, and your weapons, and a clear road,” quietly replied Martin. “But if it hadn't been for that crazy bear dance you'd be dead.”

Gilbert advanced to stand beside his friend, his face shining with joy at the prospects of an immediate departure from the terrible place. He groaned inwardly as Old Misery persisted:

“But I was hankering to join this outfit.”

Hope returned to the young man's heart when Martin shook his head firmly and declared:

“Impossible. You need too much room. There's not enough room for you and me in the same outfit. Your talk makes me think red. I'd have to shoot you to stop your tongue.”

“If I wasn't playing a lone hand I'd take you on in a second, old man,” said Williams. “But I couldn't take both of you even if I wanted a partner. Three's an awkward number. In a running fight always one has to go it alone. Might blab to save his neck. Then again, California isn't what it used to be. It's getting well organized. Gang work is playing out. Another season will see the electric telegraph hooking up the northern and southern camps and towns. It's got so a man to make a decent living must work fast and sly and ride alone.”

“Then what about Murieta?” anxiously asked Old Misery.

“Think you were wise to cross the ridge,” promptly replied Williams. “They're bound to get him. Think they'll get him this season. His band is too big. Rewards offered for him dead or alive are growing too fast. Too many posses after him.”

Old Misery gravely asked Martin:

“When can we start? We're ready any time. S'long as you don't want us the quicker we're 'bout our business the better.”

Gilbert drew his first free breath since coming to the cabin.

“I'll send a man to the grazing grounds for mounts and a mule. Your weapons are in the cabin. You can get away to-morrow morning. In the meantime you're your own men, of course. Go where you will, do what you will, but stop that cursed boasting. I couldn't stand it even from Murieta himself.”

“You've got some dust and a blanket roll of mine. Take pay for the horses and mule out of it,” said Misery.

Martin grinned sardonically and retorted: “Sorry, but there's just about enough dust to square the shot.”

“Let it go at that,” calmly agreed Old Misery, although his averted gaze was dangerous. “Reckon I know where to pick up plenty more. We'll catch up and ride in the morning.”

Williams left his horse to graze in front of the cabin while he entered and ate. He was in a mood of reckless jollity and impressed the men as having much respect for Old Misery. Martin did not relish this, but contented himself with ordering a man to bring two mounts and a pack-mule from the southern grazing grounds. He stressed the importance of haste in bringing up the animals.

“We're making for the Humboldt road. Riding our way?” asked the mountain man of Williams.

“Starting back to-night by way of the Walker River country. They were hot on my trail, and I had to cross and lose myself. If I can hit the head of the south fork of the American I can make Frisco. Safest place for me just now. I'll have to light out for good pretty soon. May try Salt Lake City. Join the church, you know. You'd better be pulling out as soon as you can or some one will be coming over the ridge to find you.”

“Looked like the game was played out when I quit,” said Old Misery. And with that he rejoined Gilbert, who was nervously waiting outside the house, and he pleased the young man by suggesting:

“Let's take a walk and find out what that young hellion of a Dart Again has been doing.”

With the exception of Bommer and Somes, and José, who was waiting on Everick, the gang was inside the long house hungrily listening to the talk of Martin and Williams. Old Misery led the way toward the woods, fringing the south side of the valley. José, the Mexican, cut across his course, and the mountain man saw a knife slip from the red sash. He picked it up and called in Spanish for the man to turn back and get what he had lost.

José turned back and thanked him in broken English. Old Misery answered in Spanish, telling him he was welcome.

Then José, in his own tongue, hurriedly said:

“I dropped the knife so I could speak with senor. I am a friend to any one who helps one of our women. You helped Senorita Ana Benites. You saved the great Joaquin's life. My life would be lost if the comandante knew that I know what I know. Lost again if he knew I was telling you. He took your bag of gold into the woods on the north side while you and the men were sleeping. I was up, waiting on the sick man. He came back, without the gold.”

Old Misery nodded and resumed his way.

“What was the fellow jabbering about?” asked Gilbert.

“Said our gold is hid on the opposite side of this valley. I'm hankering to take it along with me. That bag must be worth more'n a thousand dollars.”

“Let's forget the gold and get away from here,” begged Gilbert. “I'm more afraid of these men, especially that Martin, than I'd ever be of Indians. He gives me the shivers.

“We'll clear out soon's we can. But this gang isn't of much account, 'cept in talk. Blood-hungry all right, but they can be tamed,” calmly assured Old Misery. “My medicine has pulled us through this far. I've made them think we're their kind, and I've made Martin hanker to have us go. He made one bad mistake. He oughter been white 'nough to hand back my bag of nuggets. His mind's narrer. He may lose his pelt by trying to keep that bag.”

They entered the woods and followed along the edge for half the length of the valley before Old Misery found a spot that suited him. Then he lighted his pipe and Gilbert picked up the adventurous trail of D'Artagnan. But the young man turned only a few pages before the mountain man was interrupting him by saying:

“Reckon I'll scout south toward the hoss-herd. Hosses are nearer than Martin let on. You wait here for me. If any one comes along it's all right to tell where I went. We're free men now.”

“I'll believe that when we've left this place and those men. It'll be dark soon.”

“If the hosses ain't close by I'll go until I strike the trail from the house. If I ain't showed up when it gits along the edge of dark you can go back to the cabin. If they ask 'bout me say I struck off to the south to have a look at the hosses.”

Gilbert disliked being left alone but was ashamed to say as much. He watched his friend disappear in the growth to the south and then returned to his book. Old Misery, however, walked but a short distance before changing his course to travel west. Moving with the long, even stride of his kind, he soon turned the end of the valley and was traveling along the north side to the east.

When about opposite Gilbert's position he worked deeper into the growth and did not pause until on the west side of the small opening containing the graves. Then he crawled under the low-hanging branches of a scrub evergreen, and sucked his cold pipe, and waited with the patience of a red man.

The shadows crept deeper into the opening. Squirrels played in and about the covert, never suspecting the motionless figure possessed life. At last Old Misery put up his pipe, shifted to a sitting posture and muttered:

“Some risky if I'm seen prowling round out there; but Tunkan is with me. Nothing like a rock-medicine if you're keen to search under ground. Martin will be talking and drinking with Williams. T'others keep clear of this place along of the ghosts.”

He came to his feet, yet hesitated. Neither did he relish trespassing on the burial ground. Because of his strong horror of earth burials he firmly believed victims of interment always felt resentful and hovered about their graves. Then Snake Martin walked rapidly from the south end of the opening, entering at the point where Gilbert and Misery had lounged under a tree and the former had pointed out the graves.

Old Misery smiled grimly and patted the bag holding his rock-medicine. Surely Tunkan had directed him wisely, and his luck was greater than he had had reason to expect. He had believed he must make the search for the hidden bag of gold in person, and now another had come who would save him that trouble. Martin was in a hurry and was carrying what appeared to be a ramrod. He kept his head swinging suspiciously from side to side as he approached the graves.

He halted at the first mound and turned and stared about. Remaining stationary, he rested both hands on top of the iron rod. After holding this posture for some moments he wheeled and walked beyond the graves for some distance, then swung to the east side of the opening and disappeared into the timber.

“Clever cuss!” muttered Old Misery. “Only needs a few seconds with that ramrod to make sure his stealings is where he left 'em.”

And without prosecuting his search farther he withdrew and ran rapidly to the west. Rounding the end of the valley, he struck deep into the growth and did not shift his course until about due south of Gilbert's position. When he broke through the last cover he beheld Gilbert standing, book in hand.

“I'm mighty glad you came back!” exclaimed Gilbert.

“Who's been along since I quit you?”

“Not a soul. But it was tedious waiting.”

“Won't have to wait any more. No one knows we ain't been together all the time, and we'll let it go that way. We've been killing time and you've been reading to me 'bout Dart Again. Now we'll go back and eat a bite.”

“What good did your wandering do you? See the horses?” asked Gilbert.

“No; never saw a hoss, but they ain't far off. Feet git to itching if I stay too long in one place. Medicine told me to walk round a bit.”

On arriving at the house they found Reelfoot Williams had taken his departure. Old Misery's first act was to enter the house and pick up Solid Comfort and examine him carefully. Snake Martin watched him, but made no objection. Then the mountain man selected his revolver and long knife from a shelf and found Gilbert's rifle.

“You seem to be in a hurry,” spoke up Martin in his thin voice. “Going to start on foot?”

“Nary a start on foot when we've paid for hosses and a mule,” replied Old Misery. “Paid a good price, too. Nigh on to two thousand dollars in that bag you took from me.”

“Two hundred is nearer right,” snarled Martin. “You're lucky to have your heads on your shoulders.”

“Well, we ain't thanking you for our heads.”

“Your blankets are in the corner. That makes all your property, I believe.”

“You're forgitting the younker's pocket-knife,” reminded Misery.

“He's lost that. I warn you to talk about something else,” said Martin softly.

“I don't want it! Let him have it!” nervously whispered Gilbert, tugging the mountain man's sleeve.

“Just as you say, younker, but it's foolish to heave away property like that. I could trade that knife for a prime war-pony with any plains tribe. You'll never git anything ahead for a rainy day if you make presents so free-hearted. An', Martin, I never took kindly to being 'warned.' Let's understand you've warned us for the last time, and the next time you'll begin to show your mettle. Now what time can we start from this place? Early morning?”

Martin was in a most venomous mood and perhaps regretted allowing the two to have their weapons.

“The man will bring the horses and mule to the south edge of the clearing very soon. I'll send a man to tell him to fetch them here. The quicker you two light out after he comes the better it'll suit me and the safer it'll be for you.”

Old Misery grinned widely and reminded:

“'Nother of them warnings. But it's simply 'mazing how our minds have the same thoughts. You want us to go, and we want to go. First, the hosses couldn't be fetched till midnight! Now they'll come up almost any time.”

Martin, fighting to hold his temper under control, went outside. Bommer, who had been lounging in the doorway, entered to take a drink and murmured to Old Misery:

“Better quit pestering him. He's blood-mad.”

“Thanky kindly. Some of you fellers oughter kill the skunk.”

“How much dust was in the bag he took?” rapidly whispered Bommer.

“Rising two thousand dollars. Clean nuggets; not dust.”

Bommer lowered the jug and hastily made for the door. Old Misery threw himself on a bunk and told Gilbert:

“If you wa'n't along I'd stay here and watch things bu'st up. Snake Martin's going to lose all his rattles if he ain't mighty careful.”

“I wouldn't stay here a minute longer than absolutely necessary for a million dollars!” muttered Gilbert.

“I wouldn't neither. Man with a million dollars needs a stronger medicine than I ever could scare up. I don't know just how much a million dollars is, but I know it's a million troubles; and that's a heap. Think I'll snooze a bit till they cook supper. We'll soon be on our way. This is just something that's happened, that's all. You'll laugh when you tell 'bout it a year from now.”

Gilbert did not feel that he could ever laugh again. He sat beside the bunk and in the rapidly failing light attempted to distract his mind by reading the story-book. But there was not enough wizardry even in Dumas to keep the sinister figure of Snake Martin from his thoughts. It was the insatiable cruelty of the man, his bloody ruthlessness, that appalled Gilbert. Physically he was contemptible. Exemplifying evil he was monstrous. Fortunately for Gilbert's peace of mind Martin remained outside.

Once the young man heard him cursing Everick in a shrill, wailing voice, and his blood grew cold from fear that murder was being done. Bommer and Somes came and sat in the doorway, and exchanged words without glancing at each other. Others of the gang sprawled out on the grass and smoked, and recounted various gruesome bits of history. That they should feel proud and boastful of their crimes amazed Gilbert. At last a man entered and raked the coals in the fire place together and commenced cooking the evening meal. Bommer and Somes left the doorway. Martin entered briskly and stopped before the bunk and stared at Old Misery. Gilbert held his breath and waited. Martin's hand dropped to the handle of a revolver in the waist-band of his trousers, then came away empty. Without a word he turned and began pacing up and down the long room. Gilbert knew the outlaw leader was in a black mood and surreptitiously shook his friend by the shoulder.

Old Misery rolled on his side and murmured:

“Hand-gun under the blanket. Had him covered all the time. He was never closer to hell than when he felt for his gun.”

The fire had succeeded in heating up a kettle of cooked meat and the cook carried it outside together with an apology for bread. Martin continued walking up and down the room. Old Misery yawned and slipped from the bunk and tucked Solid Comfort under his arm and startled both Martin and the young man by sounding his war-whoop.

Then he explained:

“Grub' I smell grub. B'iled meat. Always hoot when meat's ready.”

He hurried outside, and Gilbert kept at his heels. Bommer and Somes drew back as if making room for them. The others, now ranged in a circle around the kettle, affected not to be aware of their presence; but they could not resist stealing frequent glances at the man who Reelfoot Williams had said was Joaquin Murieta's friend, as well as the slayer of the spy who had betrayed one of Murieta's band.

Martin came from the house and helped himself to a dish of the meat and sat down outside the circle. Jason took a position near his chief, his grinning teeth tearing wolfishly at the food.

Old Misery broke the silence by tossing a slab of bread aside and condemning it:

“That's damn poor chawing. Oughter had my young pard here make you some bread.”

“You won't have to put up with our bread long,” gently Martin reminded him. “It's the best we have. We're sorry you don't like it.”

“Beggars shouldn't go to finding fault,” huskily remarked Jason between his closed teeth.

“Any one says we're beggars is a liar,” complacently retorted Misery; and Gilbert quailed. “We've paid Frisco prices for all the grub we eat. And that bread's damn poor. Them as like it that way are lucky.”

Silence followed this reiterated reminder concerning the bag of gold. Bommer nudged Somes with his elbow. The circle of men stiffened; then came the scuffling of heels drawn back as if the men were making ready to leap up and dodge bullets. But Martin, staring at Old Misery, said nothing. José came up to the kettle and dished out two helpings and turned to take them back to the helpless Everick. Because of the gathering darkness he did not see Martin's outstretched leg and tripped over it. The leader exploded in a high-pitched yell and kicked the man savagely. José muttered apologies and limped away.

The men hastily finished eating and drew farther back from the kettle, each sensing a sinister tension. Old Misery continued eating, watching Martin. He felt Bommer press his arm in warning as the outlaw rose to withdraw. The mountain man continued eating, using his left hand only, his right resting on Solid Comfort, which was cradled in his lap, the muzzle toward Jason and Martin. Martin suddenly rose and entered the house. Old Misery shifted his position to where Bommer was standing. The latter began filling his pipe and from the corner of his mouth warned:

“Look out!”

Old Misery amazed him by making for the house and entering. Gilbert and the men waited for the explosion, but nothing happened.

Gilbert heard Bommer tell Somes: “Storm passed round us.” The young man decided this remark meant that some expected climax had failed to materialize. Inside the cabin Martin was saying to Old Misery—and taking care to keep his voice subdued:

“You two had better ride for it as soon as your horses come. It's for you to choose, but I really think it's better you go as soon as possible.”

“Meaning you can't keep the devil inside you chained up much longer,” said the mountain man bluntly. “I 'gree with you. We'll light out when the hosses come. But if I was here alone I'd be keen to stick along.”

“Others have felt the same way. They're still staying here and will stay here after we're through with this camp.”

“Planted out in that little opening,” mused Old Misery. “It's a handy place for burying. I come nigh laffing when you said some of the Donner party was buried there.”

“There's plenty of room for more graves,” quietly added Martin. “You can ride very soon. I'll tell the cook to pack up some supplies.”

He left the house, and Old Misery followed as far as the doorway and sat down. Martin spoke to the cook who hurried into the house and began making up a pack of supplies. Gilbert stole up to the door and sat on the threshold beside his protector.

Old Misery told him:

“My medicine says there's going to be a most 'tarnal fuss. For the first time since coming here we hold the best cards. We've got our weepins back. And if anything's going to bu'st loose.I want it to come now while we've got the house empty and the gang in front of us.”

Yet he surrendered this advantage once he saw Snake Martin start for the south side of the valley. He told Gilbert:

“I'm going out on a little scout. If any one asks for me say you don't know. Won't be much of a lie at that.”

And he chuckled softly and surprised the Vermonter by stepping back into the room.

The cook staggered out with an armful of supplies, and Old Misery slipped through the rear window. The dusk was thickening, and all the band were in front of the house. Bending double, the mountain man made for the north side of the valley and found it dark night inside the timber. His unerring sense of location permitted him to penetrate the growth in a straight line to the opening; and, passing around to the west, he took up his position in the spot from which he had spied on Martin two hours before.

His ears rather than his eyes told him when the outlaw leader entered the opening. There came the sound of steel grating on stones and the softer sound of dirt being thrown aside. Old Misery wormed his way into the opening and was quite close to Martin as the latter finished his labors and with a grunt of satisfaction started for the timber. The mountain man rose and walked after him, his form bent far forward although there was no sky-line to betray his presence.

He trailed Martin to a point due north of the cabin, then waited until the man began working his way farther east. He knew why Martin had halted before making a détour around the eastern end of the valley, and he was not surprised when he advanced to the foot of a big pine and with his foot located a mound of needles.

Rapidly exploring the contents of several bags, his lips parted in a snarl as his fingers came in contact with rings and pins and odd pieces of jewelry. The other bags contained gold in dust and nuggets, the booty doubtless obtained from homeward-bound parties of gold-hunters, or else stolen in some of the camps or towns over the ridge. What he had unearthed he carried for a short distance after the man ahead and cached it at the edge of the opening.

Then he tore a limb from a sapling and tossed it on the ground. Bending low, he raced at top speed for the end of the log house. Halting beneath the window, he listened. The long room was dark and seemed to be deserted. From the front came the idle talk of the men. With a lithe movement he slipped through the window and astounded Gilbert by suddenly sitting down beside him in the doorway.

“What—how—” began Gilbert.

“How many been in here since I was gone?” snapped the mountain man.

“No one but the cook. He came in and picked up some bundles and hurried right out. No one has spoken to me. But you—”

“Keep shet! My rock-medicine is working so hard for us that I can hear it,” whispered Old Misery.

From the group on the grass, outside, marked only by glowing pipe-bowls, a man challenged: “Who's that?”

“Martin, you fool,” whined the leader, who was returning from the south side of the valley. “Where's that big-talker?”

“Right here, old hoss-fly,” called out the mountain man.

“That's a poor way to talk to me, old man,” admonished Martin, walking toward the door.

“More warnings. Just l'arn me what's the right way and mebbe I'll be keen to try it.”

Ignoring him, Martin ordered: “Some of you make a light inside.”

Old Misery and Gilbert rose to their feet and made room for Jason to enter and throw some light stuff on the bed of coals. As the dancing flames lighted the room Martin entered and glared evilly at the Vermonter and the mountain man. He abruptly announced:

“The animals will be here pretty soon. The minute they come I want you to pack the mule and clear out.”

“That's all we're waiting for, mister,” said Old Misery.

“Hosses coming now, Chief,” bawled one of the men. “I can hear 'em.”

“There's only one hoss,” corrected Bommer.

With haste that denoted concern Martin rushed from the house to meet the newcomer.

Old Misery touched Gilbert's arm and shifted his rifle to his left hand so his right would be free. All could hear it now; the rapid thud-thud of a galloping horse.

“Riding like hell for such a dark night,” commented Somes.

“Make a blaze out there,” whined Martin.

Some one ran into the house and brought out blazing brands, and others tossed on light fuel that soon dispelled much of the darkness. Then the group waited in silence for the horseman to emerge from the black wall and enter the light. On came the horse and up to the fire before the rider could be recognized.

The man threw himself from the saddle and cried:

“It's me—Rockmore! Had to ride for my life till I topped the ridge"

Old Misery whispered to Gilbert:

“Keep awake and behind me. It's the cuss that got away from the men in Nevada City.”

Martin advanced a few steps toward the newcomer and querulously demanded:

“Why ain't you with the rest of the boys? Where's the stock?”

“Had to ride for my life, Chief. Caught in Nevada City and only got loose by luck and grit. Jumped the first hoss I saw. Stock was to go through one of the southern passes. Oughter been here before this. The boys had a good start when I rode for Nevada City to see what was up. Got nabbed on s'picion.”

“Here comes the other boys now,” some one announced.

But Martin again was disappointed, as there was only one man riding into the firelight. He was leading a horse and mule. Martin loudly announced:

“Let that old loud-talker and his friend mount and ride for it. Some of you throw the grub on to the mule.”

Instead of jumping at the offer Old Misery held back, clutching Gilbert by the arm. Two of the men were expertly fastening the provisions on the mule. The horses, stolen from some California rancho, were good ones. Misery held back until the packers had finished. Rockmore was the man he had questioned in Nevada City and whose escape had given him a chance to enter the little Chinese store and discover how old Miguel had satisfied his vengeance.

“Bold face. He never see you,” cautioned Old Misery to his companion.

And, pulling his ragged hat low over his eyes, he left the doorway and swaggered toward the horses.

“Climb into the saddle and get out,” ordered Martin.

Bommer advanced a torch so the men could make sure the mule-pack was correctly adjusted, and, as the additional light revealed the mountain man, Rockmore gave an incredulous cry and demanded:

“Wait a minute! My God! I'm not mistook! That man's the friend of Peters, the gambler, in Nevada City. Peters sent the posses out after our boys. That man is the one who got me caught along of the Adams rancho killings! You won't let him live, Chief?”

With a howl of rage Martin pulled a revolver and screamed:

“Riddle both if they make a move! Here's something to be looked into!”

“There's an empty hole out in the burying-ground that your men will like to look into,” Old Misery quickly broke in. “That hole once held the loot you hid there afore Bernie, the Frenchman, died of poison. Until you dug that stuff up and hid it again this evening you was the only man alive who knew where it was. You men understand this: Your leader planned to ride away with the gold, to ride alone and to ride to-night. I saw him dig it up and bury it in a new place.”

Martin threw down his heavy gun, and a streak of fire and a loud explosion interrupted the rest of the disclosure; and only the intervention of Jose's arm saved the mountain man from catching the lead.

The group of men were now in an uproar.

Martin was screaming: “Who did that?”

Bommer was shouting: “Old man talks straight. The little devil is robbing us, boys!”

Gilbert endeavored to drag Old Misery to the horses, but with his wild war-whoop the mountain man rushed toward Martin. The latter, entangled in a struggling group of men, broke loose, leaped forward, knife in hand, to meet Misery. Gilbert suddenly found himself endeavoring to dodge a fierce attack on the part of the grinning Jason. He warded off several knife blows with the barrel of his rifle and tried to use it as a club, but did not think to shoot. José slipped in and dexterously stabbed Jason through the heart.

Old Misery and Martin were engaged in a knife fight, the former stamping his heels and sounding the war cries of various tribes he had lived with. Martin's wailing voice kept up a stream of horrible threats as they circled about, each endeavoring to get the fire at his back and the light on his antagonist.

Bommer rushed to aid the mountain man but was set upon by Rockmore and the man called Ike.

“Damn you! You will have it!” he shouted.

And the double detonation of his heavy gun cleared his path. Only now his purpose was interrupted by the desertion of his friend.

“This way, Somes!” he cried, making after his swift-footed mate. “Curse you! Come back here!”

But Somes, with the primal instinct to destroy the thing he hated, only thought of reaching the wounded Everick and slaying him. No amount of buried treasure could come between him and that satisfaction. The figure on the blanket, possessed of a hand-gun in some way, shot Somes off his feet. Bommer took one shot, and Everick writhed and lay still.

With lightning rapidity Martin was forcing the knife play, Old Misery giving ground and falling back toward the horses. The mountain man taunted:

“Watched you bury the stuff. Dug it up. You can't ever find it.”

Their blades slithered, and with a scream of triumph Martin took advantage of what he believed to be an opening, only to meet death on the haft of the veteran's knife.

Gilbert found himself seized by the collar and began fighting desperately. Old Misery snarled:

“Come along! Ain't you had 'nough?”

Bommer ceased exchanging shots with the man who had brought up the horses and mule, and who now was crouching at the end of the cabin, and ran up as Misery and Gilbert swung into the saddle.

“Stop, or I'll kill!” he yelled.

Old Misery's moccasin caught him under the chin and toppled him over. Then the mountain man was galloping for the growth, a hand on Gilbert's bridle, and when he halted their flight they had passed through the timber and were several miles from the cabin.

Slipping to the ground, he remarked:

“That was a fuss worth while. Too dark for a man to do his best. Snake Martin's one of the niftiest knife-fighters I ever fit with. Now we can sleep in peace. In the morning I'll scout back and git grub and certain things I cached.”