The Message to Buckshot Jim/Chapter 9

sun was setting as Gilmore rode up the main street of the town—Silver Tip insisted that it was a street. He waved his hat in response to the many greetings from the sidewalks. No doubt about it, Silver Tip was glad to welcome him back. On his former visits he had entertained the inhabitants vastly with tales of his wanderings through Alaska in search of the bones of a mammoth for a German university. He had been a godsend to that sleepy little hamlet.

As he alighted stiffly in front of the Occidental Hotel, the proprietor rushed out to greet him.

"Well, Mister Hardy! Glad to see you again! Did you get some good specimens?"

"Some very good stones, thank you," said the geologist truthfully. "Here, let me carry that sack! Got some clothes in it that I want. Now, if you will put the other things in the office, I can arrange for their shipment in the morning. Tell the livery-stable man to come after the horses. Howdy, boys? All well?"

He hobbled painfully indoors, carrying the brown sack in his arms. The best room in the house was waiting for him—a tiny, affair with one small window looking out upon an alley. The professor's suit-cases stood at the foot of the bed, and the kerosene lamp flickered a feeble welcome.

Once in the room, Gilmore tried the key in the door, and was pleased to note an extra iron bolt which was in working order. He then examined the window. It was very small, and locked with an old-fashioned spring catch. The doctor tugged at it with all his might; it creaked a bit, but did not give a fraction of an inch.

"Not what you might call a safe-deposit vault," said Gilmore to himself, "but she'll have to do. Anyway, these folks might kill a tourist once in a while, but they'd never rob one. That's a cinch!"

He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the brown bag. Then he looked at his suit-cases. He turned down the blankets and put the bag into the bed, throwing his coat over it.

"Better pack it into the suit-cases in the morning," he said.

Then he began to yawn and untie his boot-laces.

Out in the "office," the citizens of Silver Tip gathered about the canvas bags and prodded them inquisitively.

"He says as how he's got some nice stones here," said one, cautiously "hefting" a sack. "And he told me he had a fine trip. Reckon I'll have to ask the packhorse how he made out. They's enough rock here to break a elephant's back! Ain't that him yellin'?"

It was. The proprietor scurried away, and returned almost immediately.

"He's all wore out," said that good man. "He wants to eat in his room and then turn in. Don't make any noise, boys, because he's plumb wore to a frazzle. And he gimme a dollar for the cook! Reckon he don't know my ole woman does the cooking!"

That was where the host reckoned without his guest. Gilmore did know who did the cooking. Hence the silver dollar.

Half an hour later, the Great Gilmore, clad only in a nightshirt and a buckskin bag which hung about his neck, spun the cylinder of his forty-five, placed it under his pillow, tiptoed over to the window, tried the catch again, placed the back of a chair under the knob of the door, and, sighing heavily, blew out the light.

As he crawled between the rough sheets, the brown canvas bag rasped against his body, and he reached down and patted it as he might have patted an animal. Then he grunted luxuriously, and stretched himself until his aching joints cracked.

Through his tired brain there floated a recollection of a convict down at the Sand Creek road-camp, but there was nothing disquieting in that thought. The shearer is never afraid of the lamb, either before or after the wool-gathering. He never considers the lamb at all; it is only the price of wool which interests him. But there was a streak of sentiment in the Great Gilmore—not enough to interfere with business, but enough to make him shiver occasionally out of appreciation for the plight of the shorn ones. And these are the thoughts which made him smile into th; darkness.

"Kind of a shame to hand Buckshot all that old stuff," he mused dreamily. "Very artistic, though—and how he did eat it up! It's up to me to give him another whirl—another message from the spirit land. Guess I better side-track Bad Jake the next time. John would think that Jake should have known that somebody beat me to that cache. No perfectly good spirit—would send an honest man out looking for—something that wasn't there. I'll have to tell John that so long as he meant well, he can go as clean as a whistle. That'll satisfy him—it isn't money he wants—it's a clean conscience. He wanted to make restitution—I'll restitute him all right—and we're square all around—he gets to sleep nights, and—I get the stuff—fair exchange!"

The train of thought stopped. At this precise point the soul boat launched itself gently into a placid sea of unconsciousness.

Hark! Was that surf on the shore? No, only the snoring of a sorely tired human animal.