Old Misery/Chapter 6

LD MISERY received a vote of thanks for his deadly marksmanship and was warmly urged to remain in town. But the tragedy weighed on him, and he stole away before the citizens missed him. He had crossed the river and climbed the stiff hill and had traveled some miles down winding Greenwood Valley be fore he remembered his dislike for the place. However, the bartender's ghost would not annoy him as it would hover around the hotel and Stacy's store.

His long walk that day beyond Coloma had tired him, he was now discovering as he depended upon his moccasined feet to keep the trail. He had intended to press on until he reached the little town of Greenwood, but surrendered to fatigue when half-way down the valley and turned into the timber back of a cabin and made his bed on the pine needles.

Ghosts or no ghosts he would sleep, he told himself; and, lulled by the crooning night breeze, he was soon unconscious. But there was a sentinel in his wary brain which never slept; and when he awoke he was sitting up, his hand on his rifle. He could discover nothing to cause alarm, and yet he knew it was time for him to be on guard against something. He dropped back and rested his head on the ground, and caught it—a faint thudety, thud of several horses coming at a hand gallop. Much relieved that he was to witness no manifestations of the supernatural, he threw aside his blankets and waited curiously.

The horsemen were riding easily and with no semblance of haste. They were coming from Coloma way and were neither pursuing nor being pursued. With Stacy's slayer dead there was no reason for a posse to be riding down the lonely valley at night; and honest wayfarers preferred the day. As the measured beat of hoofs sounded nearer Misery decided there were at the least four men in the band. Taking his rifle, he stole to a hiding-place in some bushes close beside the cabin. Now he caught the murmur of voices, and instead of keeping up their pace the riders were slowing down to a walk. There was an aroma of burning tobacco. Misery prepared to fall back, thinking they might dismount and go into camp.

The newcomers' speech became audible, and he pricked his ears on hearing them talking in Spanish.

“Tomas said it was this cabin?” asked a voice as the dark blurs drew up opposite the empty shack.

“He swore it as he was drawing his last breath,” a man replied. “The Tiger himself put the question. It would be a very brave caballero who would try to deceive the Mountain Tiger even if hiding in hell.”

“Then dismount and search. We must be back in the hills before morning,” commanded the leader.

Old Misery was keenly interested. Obviously Joaquin Murieta, of the black and yellow serape and the belt of four heavy dragoon revolvers, had sent some of his men to recover something from this cabin.

The first man afoot found pine branches and lighted them for torches, and by the smoky light Misery saw four men on the ground and a fifth in the saddle. All were dressed in the barbaric finery of Old Mexico, their short coats being thickly decorated with gold or silver braid, from under which flowed the ends of red sashes, and there was much silver on the outside of each flaring trousers leg.

None was masked, but all were strangers to the mountain man. His interest was lively but impersonal. He was much like a child watching a game. Once on a time he had unwittingly saved Joaquin's life; and recently he had killed Scar Faced Luis, one of the most deadly members of the wild, merciless band.

Then he felt his white hair stirring, and an icy chill ran up and down his spine. For something had moved inside the cabin; and this was the spot where the fourth of the Lopez robbers had been hanged with the white cloth over his head. The sound was not such as a squirrel, or other small animal, would make, but a heavy, shuffling sound. He was surprised that none of the bandits had noted it.

The leader was asking:

“And Tomas surely said it was under the big pine?”

“His last words. Under the big pine where they hung the man from Hangtown. Between two roots on the side facing the cabin. We will dig.”

Again that peculiar, dragging, shuffling sound, and the mountain man's nerves tightened. Only the thickness of the log wall was between him and It. Had it not been for the bandits to share in the situation, he would have stolen away, but their presence emboldened him to remain. The four men gathered at the foot of the big pine, three of them holding torches, the fourth armed with a pick. The work of digging commenced, the thud of the picking sounding very loud and distinct. Then the pick was cast aside, and the man was on his knees, exclaiming in triumph as he pawed out the loose dirt and exposed a stout bag of buckskin. “Well done! Soon done!” cried the mounted leader.

“Here they are all in a nest. This is the last, four in all,” cried the man as he passed up the bags for his companions to take.

Like an echo sounded a hoarse, strangled cry in Old Misery's ears such as a man might make who was choking to death.

With sharp yelps of alarm the four men fell back from the tree, each carrying a bag, and made for their horses. The leader pulled a dragoon revolver from his sash and glared about in the fitful light afforded by the torches burning on the ground.

“It's in the cabin!” cried one of the men.

The cry was repeated, and the door of the cabin swung in with many protesting squeaks. A fantastic figure lurched out, clawing at his neck and making hoarse, choked sounds. The body was white, the arms were white, and where there should have been a head was a smear of white.

The bandits cried out in fear.

One on foot screamed, “Son of the Fiend" and hurled a blazing brand at the weird shape. “The man who was hung with the cloth on his head!”

And he fairly hurled himself on his horse and galloped back toward Coloma.

The leader shouted an excited blasphemy and fired point-blank at the figure, now groping its way toward the remaining men and still choking and clawing at the white throat.

“A dead man! Pity us and save us!” yelled the leader, wheeling his horse and racing off into the darkness.

The others streamed after him. Old Misery, crouching on his heels, tried to recall a strong ghost-medicine.

“You darned fools better let me alone!” warned the ghost. “Next man that tries any tricks'll be sorry.”

“What the hell be you anyway?” asked Old Misery in a quavering voice and still keeping concealed behind a tree.

The figure picked up a torch and came toward the mountain man.

“Halt! Ghost or devil, I'll plug you if you come another step!”

“Why can't you get out of here and leave me be? You've played your prank; now be off,” complained the ghost, and a fit of coughing held him speechless for a few moments.

Then he was adding: “It's bad enough to fall into the flour and well nigh fill my lungs with the cussed stuff without having you fellers hooting round to pester me.”

The twitching at the roots of Old Misery's hair ceased. Stepping from his hiding-place, he approached the spectral figure, snatched the torch from the limp hand and swung it around until it burst into radiant flames.

After a second scrutiny he exclaimed:

“Cuss all cats if you ain't Pretty Soon Jim' And if you ain't a mess! But you're mighty wakan to be alive. That feller shot at you p'int-blank. I reckoned you was just heyoka, but you must be wakan witshasha.”

“It's you, Misery. I can't see good yet, along of the flour in my eyes; but I know your voice. Why did they want to chase me and try their games on me for? That bartender, Jack, is back of it, I'll warrant.”

“No. He ain't back of it,” soberly corrected Old Misery. “The men were greasers, come to dig up something they'd hid in the ground. They belong to Joaquin's band.”

With a squawk of terror Pretty Soon Jim started to run to the cabin, but tripped and fell headlong.

As he scrambled to his feet he cried:

“They'll be back! They're desperate, cruel men!” “They're scared as hell just about this time. Drop that rock. Solid Comfort here can stand off a dozen of 'em.”

But it was not a rock that Pretty Soon was holding in his hand.

He explained: “I hit it with my foot and fell.”

Old Misery lowered the torch and beheld one of the bags the bandits had taken from the ground at the foot of the big pine.

“Hell 'n' sal'ratus powders!” gasped the mountain man admiringly. “Now I know you're wakan witshasha! First you dodge a bullet at fifteen feet; then you stub your toe against a bag of gold!”

“Gold? Good lord! This is my third season of trying to find enough to pay my way back East! Let's have a peek at it. I was lucky at Coloma; then the bartender told me I'd lost, and took my dust away.”

“No time to look at it now. Fetch your blankets and come with me. They'll miss that bag. That changes things. Even ghosts are better to face than Murieta when he's riled. He's expecting four bags. They found four. They won't dare go back and tell any ghost story. They've got to git that fourth bag. You carry it all the time seeing it's yours, and after we dig deep into the woods we'll have a powwow.”

Pretty Soon quickly secured his blankets and followed Old Misery up the slope of the valley and into the pines.

He muttered under his breath:

“They shan't find us! They shan't take it from me!”

“A blind buf'ler could foller the flour trail you're leaving. We must clear out afore daylight,” growled Misery.

“Before daylight I'll be on my way to the bay to buy a ticket home,” declared Pretty Soon. “This bag is hefty. No one shall have it!”

“You're going with me to Nevada City and turn it into the 'spress office and find it waiting for you when you git home, you crazy loon,” the mountain man informed him.

“Now we'll squat, and you'll answer a few questions afore we turn in. Wish that little runt of a Tom Tobin was here.”

“I'll tell you anything, Misery. I ain't forgetting that drink you bought me. That bartender took my dust. I didn't dare let on I remembered it, or he might 'a' stuck a knife into me. But I never gambled. He called me into a room up-stairs. There was a table and a pack of cards. He just yanked the bag away and said, 'You lost.'”

“Never mind the bartender. No good talking about him,” uneasily interrupted Old Misery. “He's the big loser up to now. Let it go at that. But you broke your promise, Pretty Soon. Never believed you'd do it. You said you'd meet me at Stacy's store.”

“Well, I declare” exclaimed Pretty Soon. “But you sent the bartender to the store with word for me to come here and wait for you. I was to pack along a bag of flour and some other fixings. And I done it. You was to pay him for the grub before leaving Coloma to over take me.”

“Heyoka man, after all,” sighed Misery. “Just like a child. What time did you see the bartender?”

“He came over right after dinner when Stacy was at the express office and I was tending store alone. Told me you said to start about four o'clock and to say nothing about my reasons for going to anybody. Then he give me the money to pay for the grub. Said you would settle with him.”

“That part of it's right,” mumbled the mountain man.

“There! You know all about it. I ought to ask you questions. Maybe I'm unjust toward Jack. He did give me a bottle to take with me; but he made me promise not to open it till I got here. And I kept my word. But that promise didn't hold when it come to drinking from a bottle I found in the store, and it must have been lots later'n four o'clock when I woke up on the blankets. I was alone. Stacy was opening some express out back. So I just picked up a bag of flour and some fixings and sneaked off. How much gold in that bag, you s'pose?”

Old Misery weighed it in his hands and replied:

“Twenty-five hundred at a guess if it's in clean nuggets. But it don't feel like nuggets.”

He untied the buckskin thong and dipped in his fingers.

“Feels like the fifty-dollar slugs that Moffat at Frisco puts out. They're yours. It's stuff that a feller named Tomas stole and hid without sharing with the gang. Told 'bout it when he was dying. Belongs to you. Can't prove ownership of coins when so much is being stolen out here. Time we was sleeping.”

“I can't sleep for feeling so happy. All I can think of is that ticket home. I'll go by the way of the Isthmus. Fast steamers. Think of it! Only twenty-five days after leaving the bay and I'll be back East!”

His inability to compose his thoughts and sleep kept the mountain man awake some time, listening to a recital of disappointments and hardships and indignities.

Until he uncovered the pocket below Coloma he never had possessed more than enough gold to relieve his immediate wants. This night he was vindicating himself; he had never worked for any man except Jim Pipps. This bag of gold was the result of steadfastly refusing to work for wages. Finally his talk became incoherent mumbling, and the two slept.

The clock in Old Misery's head woke him up an hour before sunrise. He aroused his companion and dusted the flour from him the best he could and permitted a hurried examination of the bag. It contained fifty-four of Moffat's fifty-dollar slugs.

“'Nough to get me home and buy a good farm!” ecstatically observed Pretty Soon.

Without waiting to eat breakfast the mountain man led the way to the mouth of the valley and around the dozen cabins, two stores, and hotel of Greenwood. Once beyond the town and noticing his companion was suffering severely from yesterday's liquor, Old Misery had him lie down in a juniper thicket. Taking the bag for safe-keeping, he returned to the town and bought meat and bread. News of the Coloma tragedy arrived, brought by a horseman, while he was completing his purchases. Hastening back to the thicket, he found Pretty Soon still sleeping. Arousing him, he set out the food and urged the need of immediate departure.

Had he been traveling alone he would have worried none; but Pretty Soon Jim, as awkward to protect as he was conspicuous in appearance, was more of an encumbrance than a drove of cattle. Did he get at whisky at any camp he would be dangerously garrulous. And the men at Spanish Bar would be remembering the old man who had bought food with ledge gold. They would endeavor to detain him, at least to trail him. Old Misery arrived at two conclusions when he halted on the summit of the range overlooking the bar: he and his companion must keep ahead of the Coloma news, and he must avoid being recognized at the camp far below.

“Ever make this crossing afore?” he asked, pointing to the tents and huts at their feet.

“Late last season I come down this way to winter around Coloma.”

“Listen. Here's two trade-dollars. Go down to the river and be set across. Without stopping to talk with any one you climb up t'other side and strike the trail to the Grizzly Bear House.”

“I know the path,” proudly broke in Pretty Soon. “Guess there's mighty few I don't know.”

“Foller it. If I don't j'in you on the way I'll pick you up at the house. I'll carry the bag.”

“But why quit me?”

“We're being trailed by Old Man Trouble. My medicine tells me to make a wet crossing above the bar. With this bag and Solid Comfort it won't be any joke. You're not to take a drink till I overhaul you and give you the word.”

“I promise,” sighed Pretty Soon. “But it would be tough sledding if you never showed up.”

“Sorter tough on me, too,” grunted Old Misery. “Go ahead. You're bu'st. Just drifting round from camp to camp.”

And he turned up the crest of the ridge as Pretty Soon plunged down the long steep slope.

Reaching a point where rocks showed in the channel above a narrow bend, the mountain man worked his way down over a faint trail. The path had been used by aborigines, but never by miners, Misery decided. Gaining the edge of the river, he decided he could cross by leaping from rock to rock if it were not for an opening in midchannel. Hiding his rifle and the bag, he searched the shore until he found a section of a young pine.

Then followed the tedious work of resting it on two rocks, leaping the opening and then advancing the pine again to the next rock. He repeated this maneuver, falling into the water only once, until he managed to push the trunk over the gap in mid-stream. Returning to the shore, he took his rifle in one hand and the bag in the other and nimbly sprang from rock to rock to his rude bridge. Without a pause he made the crossing.

“Hau!” he exclaimed as he left the bridge and commenced bounding over the last half of his perilous journey.

Once started, he needs must keep moving; and his momentum was considerable as he neared the north bank. He discovered he had been deceived as to the distance between the last foot-hold and the shore. There could be no hesitating now, however, so he swung his arm and hurled the bag ahead and leaped as far as possible.

He landed in the water up to his waist and quickly scrambled ashore. Recovering the bag, he found a faint trail leading to the heights. An hour later he stepped from behind a tree and fell in beside Pretty Soon Jim, much to the latter's astonishment.

“Now you tote this damn stuff for a while,” were Misery's first words. “Come near losing Solid Comfort along of my foolishness. We'll keep clear of the Grizzly Bear House and strike for Kelly's Bar. We must keep going till we reach Illinoistown. Then I allow we'll be all right.”

The journey to Kelly's Bar was without incident, although they were thrilled at sight of a reckless horseman riding his mount down to the river. He made the descent in zigzag plunges, the intelligent animal pivoting and shifting his course when his momentum threatened to hurl him hoofs over head.

“Rides like a greaser, but he's 'Merican,” remarked Old Misery as he admired the headlong recklessness of the man.

They had to wait until the dugout had ferried the rider across, the horse being towed behind. When Misery and his companion reached the bar the horseman was half-way up the opposite slope.

“Don't git into any talk here,” warned Old Misery as he led the way by some ragged tents and a few huts, “and keep that bag outer sight.”

“You think we're in danger:” uneasily asked Pretty Soon.

“Mebbe. But once we reach Illinoistown, four miles along the ridge, we can take it easy. I'll try to rig you up a belt, so's you won't have to bother with the bag.”

Pretty Soon groaned and complained much as they ascended the mountain trail but refused Old Misery's offer to carry the bag.

“It's mine,” he panted. “I risked my life for it. 'Most scared to death in getting it. I can still feel that flour in my lungs.”

Old Misery's bearing became more buoyant as they entered the path to Illinoistown. Now he felt he was almost home, his business finished. A day's delay and he would have Pretty Soon Jim off his hands and would be free to return to Grass Hollow.

When they came to the three cabins he led the way to the one where he had met Tom Tobin. The round shouldered Pike County man appeared in the doorway. On recognizing the mountain man his bearing became hostile, yet tempered by a recollection of the old man's ferocity in combat.

“You back ag'in?” he querulously greeted. “I was hoping—”

“No use. My medicine won't let me git killed yet a while,” completed the mountain man. “But I ain't blaming you. This is a free country for wishing. It's them stewed squirrels that fetched me back. They was so prime I must have more. I've talked a heap 'bout 'em. Bimeby folks will be coming from all over the world to eat 'em.”

“That'll be a pretty howd'y-do for me,” bitterly complained the man. “And you two fellers bu'sted a prime stool with your fooling.”

“Always leave a friend as good as I found him,” declared Old Misery, and he fished a nugget from his pocket and tossed it into the ready hand.

The man examined it suspiciously; then thawed out and admitted:

“I've got some squirrels in the kettle. All you two will want. And there's a damper of bread inside somewhere. Think I'll go over and eat with the mill-men so you two can have the place to yourselves. After you git done fighting just see what you've bu'sted and leave what you think the damage's worth in one of my old boots.”

His departure was immediate, and suggested a fear that Old Misery and his companion would fall-to on the spot and enjoy themselves in savage strife.

The cabin was in filthy condition. Old clothes, soggy boots and empty bottles were scattered over the floor. But in the fireplace, opening into a stick-and-mud chimney, bubbled a kettle that gave off a pleasing aroma.

“Faugh!” exclaimed Misery, wrinkling his nose. “I'd like the squirrels more if we'd kept outside. Tom Tobin must 'a' been awful drunk to sleep in here.”

Pretty Soon was less fastidious and lost no time in examining the bottles. All were empty. Misery found some deerskin hanging from a peg and promptly set to work fashioning a belt. He worked rapidly, and with his moccasin awl and threads of sinew sewed two thicknesses together and divided them into pockets.

“Mighty clever,” praised Pretty Soon. “'Most done?”

“I'll have it finished in a minute if my stomick holds out. This place is worse'n the wind from a Injun summer camp,” growled Old Misery.

A step sounded outside the door, and he brushed his work under the bunk and came to his feet.

“Who's at home?” asked a man, standing in the doorway and trying to wink the sun-glare from his eyes.

“'Mericans. Two of 'em. Come in and squat if you can stand the gineral smell.”

The stranger entered and tested the air with his hooked nose and decided: “Smells a bit stronger than my cabin, but not much. I must have come in just ahead of you. Hoss went lame. Had to stop.”

As he spoke his dark eyes darted about the room and rested for a second on the bag at Pretty Soon's feet.

“But you do have something cooking that tickles the appetite,” he added.

He walked toward the bubbling kettle and stubbed his toe against the bag.

“Damn dark in here,” he grumbled.

Old Misery's eyes narrowed. He recognized the stranger as the daring horseman at Kelly's Bar.

His voice was hearty as he cried: “Stewed squirrels, lots of 'em. Bring what fodder you've got out front and we'll have a feast. If you ain't got any, come just the same. 'Mericans oughter share with each other; and you're 'Merican all right.”

“Yes, sir. George York, born in the State of New York. I'll be glad to share some cold meat and bread from my saddle-bags, Mr.—”

“Not any mister. Just Old Misery, the feller Old Man Trouble has been chasing for years. My friend here is Pretty Soon Jim. We're bound for the Yuba.”

“If I was afoot and not in a hurry I'd like to travel along with you,” said York. “Trail's getting unsafe for honest folks. Mill-men tell me there's been three murders within ten miles of here within the last twenty-four hours.”

“Good lord "gasped Pretty Soon. “What be we coming to? A man with property—”

“Never can cover the trail,” broke in Old Misery. “That's one thing to be thankful for: When you ain't got nothing you can't lose nothing.” And he pressed his foot heavily on Pretty Soon's toes.

“The squirrels oughter be done in less'n twenty minutes.”

“Then I'll look at my hoss and be back by that time,” said York.

The moment he passed through the door Old Misery was watching from the window. He saw the stranger make for a corral beyond the third cabin.

Turning about, he commanded:

“Off with that shirt so I can fix this belt round you. I'll have to sew it on.”

Pretty Soon removed his coat and ragged shirt, and the mountain man quickly made the belt fast and proceeded to fill the little pockets with coins.

Finishing, he commanded:

“Don't let on to nobody you're wearing it, or your ha'r'll be in the smoke. I'll keep the bag.”

“Seems to be a lot of secrecy.”

“Mighty good chance for you to git your long throat cut if you don't do as I say. My medicine tells me there's going to be trouble. When I give the word to-night for you to light out for Grass Valley you start without a yip. Reaching the valley, you're to make believe you're bu'sted and almost ready to go to work. You're just Pretty Soon Jim, down on his luck. Toward night you hoof it to Nevada City and go to Kelly's lodging-place. If I don't come along inside of two days you hunt up Mr. Peters, honest gambler, and tell the whole thing. When he knows I sent you he'll git the coins changed into dust. That'll break the money-trail. Then the 'spress office will see it's waiting for you back home. No matter when I say, 'Go,' you scoot.”

“If I'm man enough to find a bag of gold I'm man enough to turn it in to the express office. Seems as if too many folks was mixing up in my business affairs,” retorted Pretty Soon.

“All the four bags held the same kind of stuff,” patiently replied Misery. “Already Murieta's spies along Deer crick have been told to watch out for any one carrying a bag of fifty-dollar slugs. That flour trail back in the valley has been follered. Right now they're probably trailing us to this spot. It's known you left Coloma same day as I did. It's known I was in Greenwood. Most likely I'll be suspected of knowing something 'bout the bag. You've got to promise not to take a single snort of liquor till I show up and give the word. If I don't show up, not till you're on the boat, sailing for home.”

Pretty Soon frowned and scratched his chin. It was no way for a capitalist to behave. Possession of gold called for a jollification. The rôle of a penniless vagabond was abhorrent. If he gave his promise he must keep it; for somewhere alive among all his weaknesses was that one great virtue. As he hesitated, visualizing the tedious stage trip to Sacramento and the beautiful drinking-places along the way, the mountain man drew the edge of his hand across his throat and whispered:

“Within forty-eight hours if you git drunk.”

Knowing that one drink would mean a drunk, Pretty Soon groaned and surrendered.

“Good lord! I ain't as stubborn as that. I promise. Say the word and I'm off.”

Old Misery stuffed the bag inside his shirt and went outside. He saw nothing of York. He wandered aimlessly up the slope and after making sure he was not being watched he cast about for something to put in the bag. The first piece of rock he picked up had one side covered with aborescent coats of manganese. His eyes filled with awe as he gazed on it. He saw the outlines of pine-covered hills, and it resembled the bridge north of Grass Hollow.

“Picter of the ridge to a dot,” he whispered. “If that ain't strong medicine then I never heard of any. If that don't mean I'm bound to make the holler with a whole hide then all medicine is a liar.”

He felt mightily lifted up as he placed it in the bag. His head was high and no thought of an assassin's bullet troubled him as he returned to the cabin and placed the bag on the floor and half under the bunk.

Pretty Soon Jim's eyes asked questions concerning the filled bag, but the mountain man warned:

“Keep shet! You'll see me in Nevada City. I've had a sign. Comp'ny coming. Take that kettle of stew outside. I'll hunt for some bowls.”

“All ready to eat?” asked York from the doorway.

He saw the mountain man's moccasin push the bag under the bunk.

“Trying to find some clean bowls,” mumbled Old Misery.

“I've brought three that'll do,” rejoined York. “Washed them myself to make sure.”

They seated themselves around the kettle and dished up the stew and supplemented it with cold meat and bread from the stranger's stores.

York proved to be a most interesting companion after they had finished the meal and had lighted their pipes. He informed them he was a gambler and was on his way to try the northern camps.

“And I'd be mighty glad to have your company as I'm carrying quite a bit of gold with me,” he confessed.

Pretty Soon Jim was fascinated by his entertaining talk and expressed the wish they might travel together.

“Mebbe we can,” said Old Misery. “Depends on how long your hoss is laid up. S'pose we have a look at him. I used to know something 'bout hosses when I was living over the ridge. Mebbe we can keep along together.”

York rose to lead the way.

To Pretty Soon Jim the mountain man directed. “Take the kettle inside,” and under his breath he added the one word, “Scoot!”

Pretty Soon surprised him by yawning sleepily and announcing:

“Think I'll turn in. Dead tired.”

“Didn't s'pose the fool would have sense 'nough to say that,” Old Misery told himself as he followed York.

It was growing dark as they reached the small corral. The horse came to the fence to be petted, and as the mountain man ran his hand over the sleek coat and limbs he knew it was one of the best horses money could buy in California. The intelligent animal nuzzled his master. York spoke sharply, and it moved away, walking with a decided limp. But when it approached the fence it had not, so far as Misery observed, walked lame.

“Sorry we can't wait for you,” regretted Misery. “But it'll take several days for the nag to git into shape. Wonderful critter!”

They returned to the cabins and stretched out on the grass and smoked another pipe and talked for more than an hour. York was the first to plead sleepiness, and retired to his cabin.

Old Misery, humming a medicine-song, entered his cabin and swept his hand over the bunk, fearing lest his companion had failed to catch his warning. The bunk was empty. Instead of taking his blankets and making his bed outside, the mountain man drew the bag with the medicine-rock from under the bunk and placed it under the window. Then he threw off his shirt and wrapped a blanket about him and stuck his long knife in the floor between his hunched-up knees and waited.

One hour, two hours, three hours passed. It seemed foolish to keep awake any longer when his medicine was standing guard at the window; and he rested his head on his knees and dozed off.

A step at the window, as soft as an Indian's, brought his head up with a jerk, but he continued breathing heavily and snored slightly. When the doorway darkened he drew his heels under him and released his knife. He was conscious of something passing toward the bunk.

The intruder, now missing the deep breathing he had heard from the open window, was suspicious.

In a low voice he said:

“It's York, Mr. Misery. Wake up! There is danger.”

Standing erect and dropping the blanket from his shoulders, the mountain man murmured:

“I’m awake. What’s the trouble?”

He heard York spin about on his heel.

“The mill-men plot to steal your bag of gold. Where are you?” whispered York.

“Here,” softly answered Misery, crouching low and whipping the blanket around his left arm and noiselessly moving several feet to one side.

“But your friend?”

And as he put the question York shifted his position.

“Gone these hours. I stayed to meet you, you damned murderer.”

And again a noiseless shift of position.

Neither was visible to the other unless lined against the open door or window.

“How'd you guess?” murmured York.

“Hoss trained to act lame.”

And as he spoke he stepped wide to his right and heard York's heavy knife end its flight in the logs.

He worked along the side wall, trying to get his man between him and one of the two openings. After a minute he decided York was making the same maneuver and that in a few seconds they would meet. Each was trying to catch the sound of the other's breathing. Then a slight noise at the window warned him York had attempted to pass that opening by keeping below the sill but had hit the bag containing the medicine-rock.

He leaped toward the window, straightening out his form, his outstretched hand sending the point of the long knife against something. Instantly the quiet of the place was shattered by a ferocious curse and the heavy bag struck the mountain man in the chest; and the next moment the bandit was closing in. Their knives found each other and slithered blade to blade until locked at the hilt. Now neither dared to release his weapon until he had forced the opposing blade to one side. It became a test of endurance, the bandit assuming he possessed the superior strength and being willing to bide his time. Suddenly the mountain man began shouting his war-whoop.

“Weakening, damn you!” panted York. “No help for you!”

Old Misery shouted again, then chuckled and informed York:

“I'm just calling in some witnesses afore sending you among ghosts.”

And with extra pressure he pushed the bandit's knife a bit aside.

York brought the blade back and gritted: “I'll overtake him!”

Old Misery taunted:

“They'll find you fighting me in my cabin. They'll know you come to rob me.”

And he renewed his shouting.

York tried to work him to and through the doorway, but the knife was ever barring the path. Suddenly the mountain man's knife gave way and the point pricked the bandit's wrist; then it was back, hilt to hilt. For the first time it flashed into the bandit's comprehension that the old man was playing with him and holding him there until the mill-men came.

Whereas he had been supremely confident he was now afraid. He leaped back several feet and with his left hand pulled a revolver and fired, as he thought, point blank. The detonation of the heavy weapon sounded like a thunder-clap. Men outside were crying excitedly and making for the cabin. York shifted his aim a bit and fired again; then went down clawing at his throat.

“Ho! Ho! You men out there!” cried Misery from the doorway. “Bring torches! A man tried to rob and murder me. Scared my partner away. Step smart. I've killed him. He's one of Murieta's band.”

One of the men, bolder than his mates, lighted a pine bough and held it up at the small window.

One glance and he was calling to the others:

“Dead man on the floor! Come on!”

They followed him inside. The smoky light revealed York, the heavy revolver clutched in one hand, the other hand grasping the handle of the knife buried in his throat. On the floor was his knife, and in the logs was stuck a second knife.

“He come loaded for b'ar,” puffed Old Misery. “'Lowed he'd need two knives to butcher two of us while we slept. Didn't want to use a gun and wake you folks up. That's why I hooted so.”

Then he picked up the buckskin bag and added:

“Keen to rob me. One of Murieta's men.”

“What'll happen to us when Murieta hears he was kilt here?” whispered the Pike County man.

“Hide the body in the ground. Saddle the hoss and lead it back to Kelly's Bar and turn it loose. That'll break the trail. Hoss'll be found on the ridge above the bar. Folks will think the rider was thrown off. Then all of you keep your mouths shet. I'm no hand to talk.”

The men retired outside the cabin and whispered for a few moments; then the spokesman told Misery:

“See here. You've brought trouble here. We want you to clear out before it's light. We'll swear neither of you stayed here longer than to eat a snack.”

“That's a medicine-talk. I'll go now. Just waited for you folks to come and git the right of the fuss,” readily agreed Old Misery.

It was late in the afternoon when Old Misery reached Nevada City. He made direct for Hotel de Paris and found Mr. Peters in his room, completing his street toilet.

“How's our Injun-medicine man?” he heartily greeted, his fresh-shaven face beaming welcome and his thick hand extended in greeting.

“I've got a mighty strong medicine since I see you last,” gravely informed Old Misery. “Medicine-picter of the ridge north of my camp. Mebbe I'll show it to you sometime; after I find out if it's willing. Some medicines are mighty techy. Some don't seem to care how much they're looked at. Now, Peters, I'm going to s'prise you. I'm trying to dodge trouble and need a little help.”

Mr. Peters was more than surprised; he was amazed. His portly form dropped into a chair, and his broad face grew serious.

“I'm taking cards,” he briefly replied. “Deal!”

Old Misery lowered his voice and rapidly explained the situation. Mr. Peters' face cleared, and he chuckled in deep amusement.

“Trouble? That's a joke. Fetch along your loot and I'll have it changed to nuggets before a cat can wink an eye. I thought it was something with guns and knives in it.”

“Like hell you did!” growled Old Misery, his beard bristling. “How long since I couldn't take care of that brand of trouble all by myself? If it was my gold I'd blow it just as it comes from the bag, and be damned to any one that tried to stop me. But Jim's cur'ous. Most medicines don't work for him. All the way here from Illinoistown my new medicine's been trying to tell me that something is wrong. I won't feel safe 'bout that cuss till he's on the Isthmus boat.

“I ain't had time to git well acquainted with my new medicine. I can't figger out just what's wrong; but something's missed fire.”

“Nonsense, Misery! It's all as simple as cold-decking a greenhorn. That reminds me; how's your young friend getting along?”

“Good. He's a well-meaning younker. Has some thing bu'sted in his head. Thinks things can happen afore they happen. Tells about his home folks in Vermont eating supper at six in the afternoon, but sticks to it that's three hours afore something happens out here at six o'clock. Sorter heyoka that way. It bothered Bill 'n' me a heap at first; but Bill says it don't do any harm, and we let him go it. But he's honest as sunshine; and when it comes to rubbing panther ile on sore muscles he's all—”

“I don't think there's any trouble waiting for him down here,” slowly said the gambler. “Two strangers up from the bay, come separate, who didn't gamble or care for mining. Prosperous-looking. One was hunting for a 'nephew,' a young man. Other man was keen to find track of a young Englishman. Says he's hired by the lad's folks to find him. He described our young friend better than the 'uncle' did. Both have left town; but I learned from Yuba, the stage-driver, they was hunting together in Marysville. Up here they pretended not to know each other.”

“Meaning the committee's trying to git track of him?”

“The one bet on the table. But I figure they're off the trail. They still think the youngster in the El Dorado is an Englishman. Nothing can break here without my knowing it in time to send word to the hollow in time for you to hide him. He never could explain it away, unless they believed him to be an idiot.”

“He's a heyoka man,” stoutly insisted Misery. “If they come into the hills I'll take him over the ridge and p'int him east. I'm going to call Grass Holler 'Camp Trouble.' I'll be Old Man Trouble-Mender. I'm s'posed to be trapping and taming bars. Instead the camp's all cluttered up with heyoka folks. Besides the younker there's Weymouth Mass and Sailor Ben, and old Miguel and Maria—”

“Better ship that girl out. Send her down into Mexico,” tersely broke in Mr. Peters. “Heard a man claim that the monte-dealer in the El Dorado was Ana Benites, one of Joaquin's band.”

Old Misery shook his head stubbornly.

“I'll never drive her out. She's living straight in Grass Holler. She'd never run away if old Miguel hadn't lambasted her one day when I was up the ridge. Why send her back to live as 'Ana Benites'? Natural she should think Joaquin's a great man. Calls him the Great One. All the Mexicans on the coast think the same. He's the first greaser to scare a whole army of white folks. But she's living straight up there, and I won't turn her loose to be trapped any more'n I turn them panther kittens loose while they're babies. If you'll finish your war-paint we'll go down and trail Pretty Soon Jim. Time he was showing up.”

“Tom Tobin's in town. Licked two toughs in front of Kelly's. He was asking if you'd got back.”

Old Misery's eyes sparkled.

“The little pestiferous cuss! He's had a snort of liquor and thinks he's carrying a war-pipe. Said I bit him! At Illinoistown, where we got to fooling. Never bit him. "Least, never went to. Had my eyes closed and my mouth open to give my sculp-yell and he had to flop a big ear atween my teeth. If it wa'n't for that heyoka Jim Pipps I'd catch up with him in liquor and then see how playful he is. He's awful good comp'ny when he's well primed and having war-dreams. Last time we met afore I come over the ridge to this side we fought all of two days. But it can't be.” This very sorrowfully. “I've got work to do. My new medicine says something's wrong.”

Mr. Peters, immaculate in appearance and benevolent of visage, accompanied his friend to the bar for a bracer and then started for Kelly's lodging-house. They had gone but half-way when they met Pretty Soon Jim, and at first glance Old Misery believed the derelict for once had broken his promise and was drunk.

Pretty Soon walked smartly enough, much better than usual; but there was an air of importance in his bearing, a light of confidence in his weak eyes, that as a rule only rum could give him. On beholding Old Misery he grinned patronizingly. He was entirely at his ease when presented to the gambler.

“You tall, thin sucker! Where's your blanket roll? At Kelly's? You've been hooting!”

“Threw the blankets away,” was the cheery response. “To-morrow I shall buy clothing that does me justice. I'm dry enough to drink the crick dry, but I ain't had a swaller.”

Old Misery stroked his beard in deep perplexity; and sniff the air as he would there was no aroma of “Double Rectified.”

Then he hopelessly mumbled:

“Plumb heyoka! The new medicine was trying to tell me that. If he was drunk he could be sobered up. But there's no cure for a heyoka man.”

Then to Mr. Peters, who was eying Pretty Soon Jim sharply:

“He's been took by some new fit afore we could load him on to a stage.”

Pretty Soon Jim chuckled contentedly and quietly announced:

“I ain't so simple as you think, Mr. Misery. I had a chance to invest some gold and make millions. Offer had to be took on the spot. No time to change the stuff into dust as we'd planned. And the price was so dirt cheap! Good Lawd! I can hardly believe my good luck, Mr. Misery! If the feller hadn't been bu'sted I'd said he was crazy. There he was mooning round his claim and cussing his luck and bleating about all sorts of awful things that would happened to him 'less he could get some money together quick. And inside a minute my experienced eye was seeing color everywhere. And the poor fool was missing it. Greenhorn, of course.

“I sweat blood, thinking he would sell to the man he was talking to. Lucky for me the man was a Cornish miner and never at home 'less deep down in the ground. I wasn't noticed any more'n if I was a hunk of dried mud. I dug that out the side of a hole with my fingers.”

He gleefully held up a six-dollar nugget. “And the place was lousy with as good or better!” he added. “When the other backed away I just waded in, and said: 'See here, mister. I'm a greenhorn and ain't got much money. But I'm keen to make a start; and if you say this claim's all right I might buy it. But it'll have to be dirt cheap.'”

“Go ahead!" choked Old Misery as Pretty Soon paused to breathe.

“Well, sir! I never see such a look of salvation and thanksgiving in a man's eyes as was in his when he turned on me. I don't look like ounce-diggings, of course. He just took me one side and with tears in his eyes asked me how much I could raise. Said he just had to have ready money. I wasn't fool enough to name every cent I had; so I said twenty-six hundred dollars. He seemed all broken up. Probably he knew he was a fool to sell, but he needed money most mortal. At last he said he'd trade for spot cash. I'd feel mighty mean this minute for making a profit out of him when he was so hard-pressed if I wasn't feeling so good. By and by I'll feel ashamed of myself. Maybe after I've got some of the exposed stuff out to-morrow I'll give him a little present of a thousand or two extry.”

“Have you traded yet?” hoarsely demanded Old Misery.

“Signed, sealed and delivered,” triumphantly cried Pretty Soon Jim. “I'm going to bu'st into it to-morrow. When's that agreement about no drinks to end? I feel like celebrating my luck.”

“Peters,” the mountain man said to the gambler, “you see how it is. All heyoka where most folks pack their brains. We won't have to bother you after all.”

And he turned to leave the surprised, yet amused gambler. Mr. Peters, however, wished for further entertainment, and he followed the couple into an empty corner of the nearest saloon and joined them as the mountain man ordered drinks.

After the glasses were emptied Old Misery casually inquired:

“Who's the galoot that out-Injuned you, Pretty Soon?”

“I don't know just what you mean,” stiffly replied Pretty Soon. “The gentleman I bought the claim of is called Phelps. He's located at Grass Valley.”

“Whoop" roared Old Misery, banging his fist on the table.

Glaring at Mr. Peters' weeping eyes, he hissed:

“Find Tom Tobin. Tell him I need his help. Tell him not to fetch me any war-pipes till after he's pulled me out of a hole. Bring him down to Kelly's. We'll be waiting.”

As the three passed from the room the bartender told a newcomer:

“Mighty glad he finishes up somewheres else. He breaks so much stuff. Always pays something han'some, but he takes notions when he gits on a spree. If a man can't handle it right he oughter leave it alone. Have another on the house.”

“Make it a small one. He's an old mountain man, isn't he? By the way, did you ever happen to hear of a girl called Ana Benites up here?”

The bartender shook his head and began:

“There's Annie Romaine, a French girl, and there's Anna—”

“Never mind. It doesn't matter. Good night.”

And the stranger went out, leaving his drink untasted.