CHAPTER IX

THE FORERUNNER OF THE TRUST

Bill passed straight through the store and set out across the town dumps. And it would have been impossible to guess how far he was affected by Minky's plaint. His face might have been a stone wall for all expression it had of what was passing behind it. His cold eyes were fixed upon the hut ahead of him without apparent interest or meaning. His thoughts were his own at all times.

As he drew near he heard Sunny's voice raised in song, and he listened intently, wondering the while if the loafer had any idea of its quality. It was harsh, nasal and possessed as much tune as a freshly sharpened "buzz-saw." But his words were distinct. Far too distinct Bill thought with some irritation.

"A farmer ast the other day if we wanted work. Sez we, 'Ol' man, the labour?' Sez he, 'It's binding wheat.' Sez we, 'Ol' man, the figger?' 'A dollar an' a ha'f the sum.' Sez we, 'Ol' man, go an' tickle yerself, we'd a durned sight sooner bum!'

'Anythin' at all, marm, we're nearly starvin', Anything to hel-l-lp the bummers on their wa-ay, We are three bums an' jolly good chums, An' we live like Royal Turks, An' with good luck we bum our chuck, An' it's a fool of a man wot works.'"

Just as Sunny was about to begin the next verse Bill appeared in the doorway, and the vocalist was reduced to a pained silence by his harsh criticism.

"You'd orter be rootin' kebbeges on a hog ranch wi' that voice," he said icily. "You're sure the worst singer in America."

Then he glanced round for the children. They were nowhere to be seen. Sunny was at the cookstove boiling milk in a tin "billy." His face was greasy with perspiration, and, even to Bill's accustomed eyes, he looked dirtier than ever. He stood now with a spoon poised, just as he had lifted it out of the pot at the moment of the other's entrance.

"Where's the kids?" the latter demanded sharply.

Sunny shifted his feet a little uneasily and glanced round the dirty room. The place looked as though it hadn't been cleaned for a month. There was a hideous accumulation of unwashed utensils scattered everywhere. The floor was unswept, let alone unwashed. And the smell of stale food and general mustiness helped to add to the keenness of the visitor's nervous edge as he waited for the man's reply.

"Guess they're out on the dumps playin' at findin' gold," Sunny said, with a slightly forced laugh. "Y'see, little Vada's staked out a claim on a patch of elegant garbage, an' is digging fer worms. Them's the gold. An' Jamie's playin' 'bad man' an' swoopin' down on her and sneakin' her worms. It's a new game. Y'see, I thought it out and taught 'em how to play it. They're a heap struck on it, too. I—"

But words somehow failed him under the baleful stare of the other's eyes. And turning back to the milk he fell into a stupid silence.

"You'll get right out an' huyk them kiddies off'n those dumps," cried Bill sharply. "You got no more sense in your idjot head than to slep when your eyes shut. Diggin' worms on the dumps! Gee! Say, if it ain't enough to give 'em bile and measles, an'—an' spots, then I don't know a 'deuce-spot' from a hay-rake. Git right out, you loafin' bum, an' fetch 'em in, an' then get the muck off'n your face, an' clean this doggone shack up. I'd sure say you was a travelin' hospital o' disease by the look of you. I'm payin' you a wage and a heap good one, so git out—an' I'll see to that darn milk."

Argument was out of the question, so Sunny adopted the easier course of obedience to his employer's orders. He dropped the spoon into the milk with a suddenness that suggested resentment, and shuffled out, muttering. But Bill followed him to the door.

"How?" he inquired threateningly.

"I didn't say nothin'," lied Sunny.

"I didn't jest guess you did," retorted Bill sarcastically. And he watched his man hurry out into the sunlight with eyes that had somehow become less severe.

He waited where he was for some moments. Then he turned back into the room and stared disgustedly about him.

"If a feller can't fix two kiddies right an' cook 'em pap without mussin' things till you feel like dying o' colic at the sight, he ain't fit to rob hogs of rootin' space," he muttered. "I'd—Gee-whiz! Ther's that doggone milk raising blue murder wi'—"

He rushed to the stove where the boiling milk was pouring over the sides of the pot in a hissing, bubbling stream. He clutched at the "billy," scalding his fingers badly, jerked it off the stove, upset the contents on the floor and flung the pot itself across the room, where it fell with a clatter upon a pile of dirty tin plates and pannikins. He swore violently and sucked his injured fingers, while, in angry dismay, he contemplated the additional mess his carelessness had caused. And at that moment Sunny returned, leading two grubby-faced infants by the hand.

"I got 'em back," he cried cheerfully. Then his shrewd eyes took in the situation at a glance, and they sparkled with malicious glee.

"Gee," he cried, releasing the youngsters and pointing at the mess on the stove and floor. "Now ain't that a real pity? Say, how d'you come to do that? It sure ain't a heap of trouble heatin' a drop o' milk. Most any fule ken do that. I tho't you savvied that, I sure did, or I'd ha' put you wise. Y'see, you should jest let it ha' come to the bile, an' then whip it off quick. My, but it's real foolish! Ten cents o' milk wasted for want of a little sense."

"Our dinner milk," cried Vada in consternation. "All gone."

"All dorn," echoed Jamie, flinging himself on the floor and dipping his fingers into the mess and licking them with grave appreciation.

In a moment he was joined by the inevitable yellow pup, which burnt its tongue and set up a howl. Vada ran to the animal's assistance, fell over Jamie's sprawling legs and rolled heavily in the mess.

For some seconds confusion reigned. Sunny darted to Vada's rescue, sent the pup flying with a well-directed kick, picked the weeping girl up, and tried to shake some of the milk from her dirty clothing. While Bill grabbed Jamie out of the way of any further mischief. The boy struggled furiously to free himself.

"Me want dinner milk," he shouted, and beat the gambler's chest with both his little fists.

"You kicked Dougal!" wailed Vada, from under Sunny's arm.

And at that moment a mild voice reached them from the open doorway—

"Why, what's happenin'?"

Bill and Sunny turned at once. And the next instant the children were shrieking in quite a different tone.

"Pop-pa," they shouted, with all the power of their childish lungs. The men released them, and, with a rush, they hurled themselves upon the small person of their father.

Scipio set a bundle he was carrying upon the floor and scrambled Jamie into his arms and kissed him. Then he kissed Vada. After that he stood up, and, in a peculiarly dazed fashion gazed about him, out of a pair of blackened and bloodshot eyes, while the children continued to cling to him.

The two onlookers never took their eyes off him. Sunny Oak gazed with unfeigned astonishment and alarm, but Bill merely stared. The little man was a pitiable object. His clothes were tattered. His face was bruised and cut, and dry blood was smeared all round his mouth. Both eyes were black, and in one of them the white was changed to a bright scarlet.

James' men had done their work all too well. They had handled their victim with the brutality of the savages they were.

Scipio let his eyes rest on Bill, and, after a moment's hesitation, as though gathering together his still scattered wits, spoke his gratitude.

"It was real kind of you lendin' me Gipsy. I set her back in the barn. She's come to no harm. She ain't got saddle-sore, nor—nor nothin'. Maybe she's a bit tuckered, but she's none the worse, sure."

Bill clicked his tongue, but made no other response. At that moment it would have been impossible for him to have expressed the thoughts passing through his fierce mind. Sunny, however, was more superficial. Words were bursting from his lips. And when he spoke his first remark was a hopeless inanity.

"You got back?" he questioned.

Scipio's poor face worked into the ghost of a smile.

"Yes," he said. And the awkwardness of the meeting drove him to silently caressing his children.

Presently Sunny, who was not delicate-minded, pointed at his face.

"You—you had a fall?"

Scipio shook his head.

"You see, I found him and—his boys got rough," he explained simply.

"Gee!"

There was no mistaking Sunny's anger. He forgot his usual lazy indifference. For once he was stirred to a rage that was as active and volcanic as one of Wild Bill's sudden passions.

But the gambler at last found his tongue, and Sunny was given no further opportunity.

"What you got there?" he asked, pointing at the parcel Scipio had deposited on the floor.

The little man glanced down at it.

"That?" he said hazily. "Oh, that's bacon an' things. I got 'em from Minky on my way up. He told me you'd sure got grub up here, an' I didn't need to get things. But I guessed I couldn't let you do all this now I'm back. Say," he added, becoming more alert. "I want to thank you both, you bin real good helping me out."

Bill swallowed some tobacco juice, and coughed violently. Sunny was eaten up with a rage he could scarcely restrain. But Scipio turned to the children, who were now clinging silently to his moleskin trousers.

"Guess we'll get busy an' fix things up," he said, laying caressing hands upon them. "You'll need your dinners, sure. Poppa's got nice bacon. How's that?"

"Bully," cried Vada promptly. Now that she had her father again everything was "bully." But Jamie was silently staring up at the man's distorted features. He didn't understand.

Wild Bill recovered from his coughing, suddenly bestirred himself.

"Guess we'd best git goin', Sunny," he said quietly. "Zip'll likely need to fix things up some. Y'see, Zip," he went on, turning to the father, "Sunny's done his best to kep things goin' right. He's fed the kiddies, which was the most ne'ssary thing. As for keppin' the place clean,"—he pointed at the small sea of milk which still stood in pools on the floor—"I don't guess he's much when it comes to cleanin' anything—not even hisself. I 'low he's wrecked things some. Ther's a heap of milk wasted. Howsum—"

"Say!" cried the outraged Sunny. But Bill would allow no interruption.

"We'll git goin'," he said, with biting coldness. "Come right along. So long, Zip," he added, with an unusual touch of gentleness. "I'll be along to see you later. We need to talk some."

He moved over to Sunny's side, and his hand closed upon his arm. And somehow his grip kept the loafer silent until they passed out of the hut. Once outside the gambler threw his shoulders back and breathed freely. But he offered no word. Only Sunny was inclined to talk.

"Say, he's had a desprit bad time," he said, with eyes ablaze.

But Bill still remained silent. Nor did another word pass between them until they reached Minky's store.

* * * * *

The moment they had departed Scipio glanced forlornly round his home. It was a terrible home-coming. Three days ago in spite of all set-backs and shortcomings, hope had run high in his heart. Now—He left the twins standing and walked to the bedroom door. He looked in. But the curtains dropped from his nerveless fingers and he turned back to the living room, sick in mind and heart. For one moment his eyes stared unmeaningly at the children. Then he sat down on the chair nearest the table and beckoned them over to him. They came, thrilled with awe in their small wondering minds. Their father's distorted features fascinated yet horrified them.

Jamie scrambled to one knee and Vada hugged one of the little man's arms.

"We'll have to have dinner, kiddies," he said, with attempted lightness.

"Ess," said Jamie absently. Then he reached up to the wound on his father's right cheek, and touched it gently with one small finger. It was so sore that the man flinched, and the child's hand was withdrawn instantly.

"Oose's hurted," he exclaimed.

"Pore poppa's all hurt up," added Vada tearfully.

"Not hurt proper," said Scipio, with a wan smile. "Y'see, it was jest a game, an'—an' the boys were rough. Now we'll git dinner."

But Vada's mind was running on with swift childish curiosity, and she put a sudden question.

"When's momma comin' back?" she demanded.

The man's eyes shifted to the open doorway. The golden sunlight beyond was shining with all the splendor of a summer noon. But for all his blackened eyes saw there might have been a gray fog of winter outside.

"Momma?" he echoed blankly.

"Ess, momma," cried Jamie. "When she comin'?"

Scipio shook his head and sighed.

"When she comin'?" insisted Vada.

The man lowered his eyes till they focused themselves upon the yellow pup, now hungrily licking up the cold milk.

"She won't come back," he said at last, in a low voice. Then with a despairing gesture, he added: "Never! never!" And his head dropped upon Jamie's little shoulder while he hugged Vada more closely to his side as though he feared to lose her too.



CHAPTER X

THE TRUST

It was a blazing afternoon of the "stewing" type. The flies in the store kept up a sickening hum, and tortured suffering humanity—in the form of the solitary Minky—with their persistent efforts to alight on his perspiring face and bare arms. The storekeeper, with excellent forethought, had showered sticky papers, spread with molasses and mucilage, broadcast about the shelves, to ensnare the unwary pests. But though hundreds were lured to their death by sirupy drowning, the attacking host remained undiminished, and the death-traps only succeeded in adding disgusting odors to the already laden atmosphere. Fortunately, noses on Suffering Creek were not over-sensitive, and the fly, with all his native unpleasantness, was a small matter in the scheme of the frontiersman's life, and, like all other obstructions, was brushed aside physically as well as mentally.

The afternoon quiet had set in. The noon rush had passed, nor would the re-awakening of the camp occur until evening. Ordinarily the quiet of the long afternoon would have been pleasant enough to the hard-working storekeeper. For surely there is something approaching delight in the leisure moments of a day's hard and prosperous work. But just now Minky had little ease of mind. And these long hours, when the camp was practically deserted, had become a sort of nightmare to him. The gold-dust stored in the dim recesses of his cellars haunted him. The outlaw, James, was a constant dread. For he felt that his store held a bait which might well be irresistible to that individual. Experienced as he was in the ways of frontier life, the advent of the strangers of the night before had started a train of alarm which threatened quickly to grow into panic.

He was pondering this matter when Sunny Oak, accompanied by the careless Toby Jenks, lounged into the store. With a quick, almost furtive eye the storekeeper glanced up to ascertain the identity of the newcomers. And, when he recognized them, such was the hold his alarm had upon him, that his first thought was as to their fitness to help in case of his own emergency. But his fleeting hope received a prompt negative. Sunny was useless, he decided. And Toby—well, Toby was so far an unknown quantity in all things except his power of spending on drink the money he had never earned.

"Ain't out on your claim?" he greeted the remittance man casually.

"Too blamed hot," Toby retorted, winking heavily.

Then he mopped his face and ordered two whiskies.

"That stuff won't cool you down any," observed Minky, passing behind his counter.

"No," Toby admitted doubtfully. Then with a bright look of intelligence. "But it'll buck a feller so it don't seem so bad—the heat, I mean." His afterthought set Sunny grinning.

Minky set out two glasses and passed the bottle. The men helped themselves, and with a simultaneous "How!" gulped their drinks down thirstily.

Minky re-corked the bottle and wiped a few drops of water from the counter.

"So Zip's around," he said, as the glasses were returned to the counter. And instantly Sunny's face became unusually serious.

"Say," he cried, with a hard look in his good-natured eyes. "D'you ever feel real mad about things? So mad, I mean, you want to get right out an' hurt somebody or somethin'? So mad, folks is likely to git busy an' string you up with a rawhide? I'm sure mostly dead easy as a man, but I feel that away jest about now. I've sed to myself I'd do best settin' my head in your wash-trough. I've said it more'n oncet in the last half-hour. But I don't guess it's any sort o' use. So—so, I'll cut out the wash-trough."

"You most generally do," said Toby pleasantly.

"You ain't comic—'cep' when you're feedin'," retorted Sunny, nettled. Then he turned to Minky, just as the doorway of the store was darkened by the advent of Sandy Joyce. But he glanced back in the newcomer's direction and nodded. Then he went on immediately with his talk.

"Say, have you seen him?" he demanded of anybody. "I'm talkin' o' Zip," he added, for Sandy's enlightenment. "He found James. Located his ranch, an'—an' nigh got hammered to death for his pains. Gee!"

"We see him," said Minky, after an awed pause. "But he never said a word. He jest set Bill's mare back in the barn, an' bo't bacon, and hit off to hum."

"I didn't see him," Sandy admitted. "How was he?"

"Battered nigh to death, I said," cried Sunny, with startling violence. "His eyes are blackened, an' his pore mean face is cut about, an' bruised ter'ble. His clothes is torn nigh to rags, an'—"

"Was it the James outfit did it?" inquired Minky incredulously.

"They did that surely," cried Sunny vehemently. "You ain't seen Bill, have you? He's that mad you can't git a word out o' him. I tell you right here somethin's goin' to happen. Somethin's got to happen," he added, with a fresh burst of rage. "That gang needs cleanin' out. They need shootin' up like vermin, an'—"

"You're goin' to do it?" inquired Sandy sarcastically.

Sunny turned on him in a flash.

"I'll take my share in it," he cried, "an' it'll need to be a big share to satisfy me," he added, with such evident sincerity and fiery determination that his companions stared at him in wonder.

"Guess Sunny's had his rest broke," observed Toby, with a grin.

"I have that sure. An'—an' it makes me mad to git busy," the loafer declared. "Have you seen that pore feller with his face all mussed? Gee! Say, Zip wouldn't hurt a louse; he's that gentle-natured I'd say if ther' was only a baulky mule between him an' starvation he'd hate to live. He ain't no more savvee than a fool cat motherin' a china dog, but he's got the grit o' ten men. He's hunted out James with no more thought than he'd use firin' a cracker on the 4th o' July. He goes after him to claim his right, as calm an' foolish as a sheep in a butcherin' yard. An' I'd say right here ther' ain't one of us in this store would have had the grit chasin' for his wife wher' Zip's bin chasin'—"

"Not for a wife, sure," interjected Sandy.

Toby smothered a laugh, but became serious under Sunny's contemptuous eye.

"That's like you, Sandy," he cried. "It's sure like you. But I tell you Zip's a man, an' a great big man to the marrer of his small backbone. His luck's rotten. Rotten every ways. He's stuck on his wife, an' she's gone off with a tough like James. He works so he comes nigh shamin' even me, who hates work, on a claim that couldn't show the color o' gold on it, if ther' wa'an't nothin' to the earth but gold. He's jest got two notions in his silly head. It's his kids an' his wife. Mackinaw! It makes me sick. It does sure. Here's us fellers without a care to our souls, while that pore sucker's jest strugglin' an' strugglin' an' everythin's wrong with him—wrong as—oh, hell!"

For once Sandy forgot his malicious jibe at the loafer's expense. And Toby, too, forgot his pleasantry. Sunny's outburst of feeling had struck home, and each man stood staring thoughtfully at the mental picture he had conjured for them. Each admitted to himself in his own way the pity the other's words had stirred, but none of them had anything to add at the moment.

Sunny glanced from one to the other. His look was half questioning and wholly angry. He glanced across at the window and thrust his hands in his ragged trousers pockets.

And presently as he began to tap the floor with his foot a fresh rush of fiery anger was mounting to his head. He opened his lips as though about to continue his tirade, but apparently changed his mind. And, instead, he drew a dollar bill from his pocket, and flung it on the counter.

"Three more drinks," he demanded roughly.

Minky in unfeigned surprise produced the glasses. Sandy leant over, and, with face thrust forward, inspected the bill. Toby contented himself with a low whistle of astonishment.

Sunny glared at them contemptuously.

"Yes," he said roughly, "I've earned it. I've worked for it, do you understand? Wild Bill set me to look after Zip's kids, an' he's paid me for it. But—but that money burns—burns like hell, an' I want to be quit of it. Oh, I ain't bug on no sort o' charity racket, I'm jest about as soft as my back teeth. But I'm mad—mad to git busy doin' anythin' so we ken git Zip level with that low-down skunk, James. An' if ther's fi' cents' worth o' grit in you, Mister Sandy Joyce, an' an atom o' savvee in your fool brain, Toby, you'll take a hand in the game."

Minky looked on in silent approval. Anything directed against James was bound to meet with his approval just now. But Sandy cleared his throat, and lounged with his back against the counter.

"An' wot, I'd ast, is goin' to hurt this tough?" he inquired, with a dash of his usual sarcasm.

Sunny flew at his drink and gulped it down.

"How do I know?" he cried scornfully.

"Jest so."

Toby grinned.

"You're a bright one, Sunny. You're so bright, you dazzle my eyes," he cried.

But Sunny was absorbed in a thought that was hazily hovering in the back of his brain, and let the insult pass.

"How ken I tell jest wot we're goin' to do," he cried. "Wot we want to do is to kind o' help that pore crittur Zip out first. Ther' he is wi' two kids to see to, which is sure more than one man's work, an' at the same time he's got to dig up that mudbank claim of his. He don't see the thing's impossible, 'cos he's that big in mind he can't see small things like that. But I ain't big that aways, an' I ken see. If he goes on diggin' wot's his kids goin' to do, an' if he don't dig wot's they goin' to do anyways. We'll hev to form a committee—"

"Sort o' trust," grinned Toby.

But Sunny passed over his levity and seized upon his suggestion.

"I 'lows your fool head's tho't somethin' wiser than it guessed," he said. "That's just wot we need. Ther' should be a trust to see after him. An' after it's got his kids fixed right—"

Sunny broke off as the tall figure of Wild Bill threw its shadow across the window of the store. The next moment the man himself entered the room.

He nodded silently, and was about to fling himself into one of the chairs, when Toby, in jocular anticipation, threw Sunny's proposition at him.

"Say, Sunny's woke up an' bin thinkin'," he cried. "I allow his brain is shockin' wonderful. Guess he's got sick o' restin' an' reckons he got a notion for makin' a trust lay-out."

"The Zip Trust," added Sandy, with a laugh, in which Toby joined heartily.

"Yes. He guesses Zip needs lookin' after," declared the remittance man in the midst of his mirth, glancing round for appreciation of the joke.

But the encouragement he received fell short of his expectations, and his laugh died out quite abruptly. There was no responsive smile on Minky's face. Sunny was glowering sulkily; while Bill's fierce brows were drawn together in an angry frown, and his gimlet eyes seemed to bore their way into the speaker's face.

"Wal?" he demanded coldly.

"Wal, I think he's—"

But Bill cut him short in his coldest manner.

"Do you?" he observed icily. "Wal, I'd say you best think ag'in. An' when you done thinkin' jest start right over ag'in. An' mebbe some day you'll get wise—if you don't get took meanwhiles."

Bill flung himself into the chair and crossed his long legs.

"Sunny's on the right lay," he went on. "Ther' ain't many men on Sufferin' Creek, but Zip's one of 'em. Say, Toby, would you ride out to James' outfit to call him all you think of the feller whose stole your wife?"

"Not by a sight," replied Toby seriously.

"Wal, Zip did. He's big," went on Bill in cold, harsh tones. Then he paused in thought. But he went on almost immediately. "We got to help him. I'm sure with Sunny." He turned on the loafer with a wintry smile. "You best organize right away, an'—count me in."

Sunny's eyes glowed with triumph. He had feared the man's ridicule. He had expected to see his lean shoulders go up in silent contempt. And then, he knew, would have followed a storm of sarcasm and "jollying" from Sandy and the others. With quick wit he seized his opportunity, bent on using Bill's influence to its utmost. He turned on Minky with a well calculated abruptness.

"You'll help this thing out—too?" he challenged him.

And he got his answer on the instant—

"I sure will—to any extent."

Sandy and Toby looked at the storekeeper in some doubt. Bill was watching them with a curious intentness. And before Sunny could challenge the two scoffers, his harsh voice filled the room again.

"I don't know we'll need any more," he said, abruptly turning his gaze upon the open window, "otherwise we'd likely hev ast you two fellers. Y'see, we'll need folks as ken do things—"

"Wot sort o' things?" demanded Sandy, with a sudden interest.

"Wal, that ain't easy to say right now, but—"

"I ain't much seein' to kids," cried Sandy, "but I ken do most anythin' else."

A flicker of a smile crept into Bill's averted eyes, while Sunny grinned broadly to see the way the man was now literally falling over himself to follow the leadership of Wild Bill.

"Wal, it ain't no use in saying things yet, but if you're dead set on joining this Zip Trust, I guess you can. But get this, what you're called upon to do you'll need to do good an' hard, an'—without argument."

Sandy nodded.

"I'm in," he cried, as though a great privilege had been bestowed upon him.

And at once Toby became anxious.

"Guess you ain't no use for me, Bill?" he hazarded, almost diffidently.

Bill turned his steely eyes on him in cold contemplation. Minky had joined in Sunny's grin at the other men's expense. Sandy, too, now that he was accepted as an active member of the trust, was indulging in a superior smile.

"I don't allow I have," Bill said slowly. "Y'see, you ain't much else than a 'remittance' man, an' they ain't no sort o' trash anyway."

"But," protested Toby, "I can't help it if my folks hand me money?"

"Mebbe you can't." Bill was actually smiling. And this fact so far influenced the other members of the trust that an audible titter went round the room. Then the gambler suddenly sat forward, and the old fierce gleam shone once more in his cold eyes. "Say," he cried suddenly. "If a feller got the 'drop' on you with six bar'ls of a gun well-loaded, an'—guessed you'd best squeal, wot 'ud you do?"

"Squeal," responded the puzzled Toby, with alacrity.

"You ken join the Trust. You sure got more savvee than I tho't."

Bill sat back grinning, while a roar of laughter concluded the founding of the Zip Trust.

But like all ceremonials, the matter had to be prolonged and surrounded with the frills of officialdom. Sunny called it organization, and herein only copied people of greater degree and self-importance. He plunged into his task with whole-hearted enthusiasm, and, with every word he uttered, preened himself in the belief that he was rapidly ascending in the opinion of Wild Bill, the only man on Suffering Creek for whose opinion he cared a jot.

He explained to his comrades, with all the vanity of a man whose inspiration has met with public approval, that in forming such a combine as theirs, it would be necessary to allot certain work, which he called "departments," to certain individuals. He assured his fellow-members that such was always done in "way-up concerns." It saved confusion, and ensured the work being adequately performed.

"Sort o' like a noo elected gover'ment," suggested Sandy sapiently.

"Wal, I won't say that," said Sunny. "Them fellers traipse around wi' portyfolios hangin' to 'em. I don't guess we need them things. It's too hot doin' stunts like that."

"Portfolios?" questioned Toby artlessly. "Wot's them for?"

"Oh, jest nuthin' o' consequence. Guess it's to make folks guess they're doin' a heap o' work. No, what we need is to set each man his work this aways. Now Bill here needs to be president sure. Y'see, we must hev a 'pres.' Most everything needs a 'pres.' He's got to sit on top, so if any one o' the members gits gay he ken hand 'em a daisy wot'll send 'em squealin' an' huntin' their holes like gophers. Wal, Bill needs to be our 'pres.' Then there's the 'general manager.' He's the feller wot sets around an' blames most everybody fer everything anyway, an' writes to the noospapers. He's got to have savvee, an' an elegant way o' shiftin' the responsibility o' things on them as can't git back at him. He's got to be a bright lad—"

"That's Sunny, sure," exclaimed Toby. "He's a dandy at gettin' out o' things an' leaving others in. Say—"

"Here, half-a-tick," cried Joyce, with sudden inspiration. "Who's goin' to be 'fightin' editor'?"

"Gee, what a brain!" cried Sunny derisively. "Say, we ain't runnin' a mornin' noos sheet. This is a trust. Sandy, my boy, you need educatin'. A trust's a corporation of folks wot is so crooked, they got to git together, an' pool their cash, so's to git enough dollars to kep 'em out o' penitentiary. That's how they start. Later on, if they kep clear o' the penitentiary, they start in to fake the market till the Gover'ment butts in. Then they git gay, buy up a vote in Congress, an' fake the laws so they're fixed right fer themselves. After that some of them git religion, some of 'em give trick feeds to their friends, some of 'em start in to hang jewels on stage females. Some of 'em have been known to shoot theirselves or git divorced. It ain't no sort o' matter wot they do, pervided they're civil to the noospaper folk. That's a trust, Sandy, an' I don't say but what the feller as tho't o' that name must o' bin a tarnation amusin' feller."

"Say, you orter bin in a cirkis," sneered Sandy, as the loafer finished his disquisition.

"Wal, I'd say that's better'n a museum," retorted Sunny.

But Toby was impatient to hear how Sunny intended to dispose of him.

"Wher' do I figger in this lay-out?" he demanded.

"You?" Sunny's eyes twinkled. "Don't guess we'll need to give you hard work. You best be boss o' the workin' staff."

"But ther' ain't no workin' staff," protested Toby.

"Jest so. That's why you'll be boss of it." Then Sunny turned to Sandy.

"We'll need your experience as a married man, tho'," he said slyly. "So you best be head o' the advisory board. You'll need to kep us wise to the general principles of vittlin' a family of three, when the woman's missin'. Then we'll need a treasurer." Sunny turned to Minky, and his twinkling eyes asked the question.

"Sure," said Minky promptly, "I'll be treasurer. Seems to me I'll be safer that ways."

"Good," cried Sunny, "that's all fixed." He turned to Bill. "Say, pres," he went on, "I'd like to pass a vote o' thanks fer the way you conducted this yer meetin', an' put it to the vote, that we accept the treasurer's invitation to take wine. All in favor will—"

"Mine's rye," cried Sandy promptly.

"An' mine," added Toby.

"Rye for me," nodded Sunny at Minky's grinning face. "Bill—?"

But Bill shook his head.

"Too early for me," he said, "you fellers can git all you need into you though. But see here, folks," he went on, with a quietness of purpose that promptly reduced every eye to seriousness. "This ain't no play game as Sunny may ha' made you think. It's a proposition that needs to go thro', an'—I'm goin' to see it thro'. Zip's kids is our first trouble. They ain't easy handlin'. They got to be bro't up reg'lar, an' their stummicks ain't to be pizened with no wrong sort o' vittles. Ther's such a heap o' things to kids o' that age it makes me nigh sweat at the tho't. Howsum, Zip's down an' out, an' we got to see him right someways. As 'pres' of this lay-out, I tell you right here, every mother's son of us had best git out an' learn all we ken about fixin' kids right. How to feed 'em, how to set their pretties on right, how to clean 'em, how to—well, jest how to raise 'em. If any o' you got leddy friends I'd say git busy askin' 'em. So—"

At that moment the sound of footsteps on the veranda came in through the window, and Bill looked round. The next instant he spoke more rapidly, and with greater authority.

"Git goin'," he cried, "an' we'll meet after supper."

There was no doubt of this man's rule. Without a word the men filed out of the store, each one with his thoughts bent upon the possibilities of acquiring the knowledge necessary.



CHAPTER XI

STRANGERS IN SUFFERING CREEK

Bill watched the men depart. The stolid Minky, too, followed them with his eyes. But as they disappeared through the doorway he turned to the gambler, and, in surprise, discovered that he was reclining in a chair, stretched out in an attitude of repose, with his shrewd eyes tightly closed. He was about to speak when the swing-doors opened, and two strangers strolled in.

Minky greeted them, "Howdy?" and received an amiable response. The newcomers were ordinary enough to satisfy even the suspicious storekeeper. In fact, they looked like men from some city, who had possibly come to Suffering Creek with the purpose of ascertaining the possibilities of the camp as a place in which to try their fortunes. Both were clad in store clothes of fair quality, wearing hats of the black prairie type, and only the extreme tanning of their somewhat genial faces belied the city theory.

Minky noted all these things while he served them the drinks they called for, and, in the most approvedly casual manner, put the usual question to them.

"Wher' you from?" he inquired, as though the matter were not of the least consequence.

He was told Spawn City without hesitation, and in response to his remark that they had "come quite a piece," they equally amiably assured him that they had.

Then one of the men addressed his companion.

"Say, Joe," he said, "mebbe this guy ken put us wise to things."

And Joe nodded and turned to the storekeeper.

"Say, boss," he began, "we've heerd tell this lay-out is a dead gut bonanza. There's folks in Spawn City says ther's gold enough here to drown the United States Treasury department. Guess we come along to gather some." He grinned in an ingratiating manner.

Minky thought before answering.

"Ther' sure is a heap o' gold around. But it ain't easy. I don't guess you'd gather much in a shovel. You'll get pay dirt that aways, but—"

"Ah! Needs cap'tal," suggested Joe.

"That's jest how we figgered," put in the other quietly.

Minky nodded. Many things were traveling swiftly through his mind.

"Drove in?" he inquired.

"Sure," replied Joe. "Unhooked down the trail a piece."

Bill's eyes opened and closed again. Then he shifted noisily in his chair. The men turned round and eyed him with interest. Then the man called Joe called back to the storekeeper.

"My name's Joe Manton," he said, by way of introduction. "An' my friend's called Sim Longley. Say," he went on, with a backward jerk of the head, "mebbe your friend'll take something?"

Minky glanced over at Wild Bill. The gambler drowsily opened his eyes and bestirred himself.

"I sure will," he said, rearing his great length up, and moving across to the counter. "I'll take Rye, mister, an' thank you. This is Mr. Minky, gents. My name's Bill."

The introduction acknowledged, talk flowed freely. Wild Bill, in carefully toned down manner, engaged the strangers in polite talk, answering their questions about the gold prospects of the place, which were often pointed, in the most genial and even loquacious manner. He told them a great deal of the history of the place, warned them that Suffering Creek was not the sinecure the outside world had been told, endorsed Minky's story that what Suffering Creek really needed was capital to reach the true wealth of the place. And, in the course of the talk, drink flowed freely.

Bill was always supplied with his drink from a different bottle to that out of which the strangers were served. As a matter of fact, he was probably the most temperate man on Suffering Creek, and, by an arrangement with Minky, so as not to spoil trade, drank from a bottle of colored water when the necessity for refreshment arose. But just now his manner suggested that he had drunk quite as much whisky as the strangers. His spirits rose with theirs, and his jocularity and levity matched theirs, step by step, as they went on talking.

The man Longley had spoken of the settlement as being "one-horsed," and Billy promptly agreed.

"It sure is," he cried. "We ain't got nothing but this yer canteen, with ol' Minky doin' his best to pizen us. Still, we get along in a ways. Mebbe we could do wi' a dancin'-hall—if we had females around. Then I'd say a bank would be an elegant addition to things. Y'see, we hev to ship our gold outside. Leastways, that's wot we used to do, I've heard. Y'see, I ain't in the minin' business," he added, by way of accounting for his lack of personal knowledge.

"Ah!" said Joe. "Maybe you're 'commercial'?"

Bill laughed so genially that the others joined in it.

"In a ways, mebbe I am. You see, I mostly sit around, an' when anything promisin' comes along, why, I ain't above plankin' a few dollars by way of—speculation."

Joe grinned broadly.

"A few shares in a poker hand, eh?" he suggested shrewdly.

"You're kind o' quick, mister," Bill laughed. "I'm stuck on 'draw' some."

Then the talk drifted suddenly. It was Longley who presently harked back to the commercial side of Suffering Creek.

"You was sayin' ther' wasn't no bank on Suffering Creek," he said interestedly. "What do folks do with their dust now, then?"

A quick but almost imperceptible glance passed between Bill and the storekeeper. And Bill's answer came at once.

"Wal, as I sed, we used to pass it out by stage. But—"

Longley caught him up just a shade too quickly.

"Yes—but?"

"Wal," drawled Bill thoughtfully, "y'see, we ain't shipped dust out for some time on account of a gang that's settin' around waitin'. You comin' from Spawn City'll likely have heard of this feller James an' his gang. A most ter'ble tough is James. I'll allow he's got us mighty nigh wher' he wants us—scairt to death. No, we ain't sent out no gold stage lately, but we're goin' to right soon. We'll hev to. We've ast for an escort o' Gover'ment troops, but I guess Sufferin' Creek ain't on the map. The Gover'ment don't guess they've any call to worry."

"Then what you goin' to do?" inquired Longley, profoundly interested.

"Can't say. The stage'll hev to take its chances."

"An' when—" began Longley. But his comrade cut him short.

"Say, I'll allow the gold racket's mighty int'restin', but it makes me tired this weather. You was speakin' 'draw'—"

"Sure," responded Bill amiably. "We're four here, if you fancy a hand. Minky?"

The storekeeper nodded, and promptly produced cards and 'chips.' And in five minutes the game was in progress. Used as he was to the vagaries of his gambling friend, Minky was puzzled at the way he was discussing Suffering Creek with these strangers. His talk about James and the gold-stage was too rankly absurd for anything, and yet he knew that some subtle purpose must be underlying his talk. However, it was no time to question or contradict now, so he accepted the situation and his share in the game.

And here again astonishment awaited him. Bill lost steadily, if not heavily. He watched the men closely, but could discover none of the known tricks common to the game when sharps are at work. They not only seemed to be playing straight, but badly. They were not good poker players. Yet they got the hands and won. For himself, he kept fairly level. It was only Bill who lost.

And all through the game the gambler allowed himself to be drawn into talking of Suffering Creek by the interested Longley, until it would have been obvious to the veriest greenhorn that the stranger was pumping him.

The newcomers seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously, and the greatest good-will prevailed. Nor was it until nearly supper-time that Bill suddenly stood up and declared he had had enough. He was a loser to the extent of nearly a hundred dollars.

So the party broke up. And at Minky's suggestion the men departed to put their horses in the barn, while they partook of supper under his roof. It was the moment they had gone that the storekeeper turned on his friend.

"Say, I ain't got you, Bill. Wot's your game?" he demanded, with some asperity.

But the gambler was quite undisturbed by his annoyance. He only chuckled.

"Say," he countered, "ever heerd tell of Swanny Long, the biggest tough in Idaho?"

"Sure. But—"

"That's him—that feller Sim Longley."

The storekeeper stared.

"You sure?"

"Sure? Gee! I was after him fer nigh three—Say," he broke off—it was not his way to indulge in reminiscence—"I guess he's workin' with James." Then he laughed. "Gee! I allow he was rigged elegant—most like some Bible-smashin' sky-pilot."

Minky was still laboring hard to understand.

"But all that yarn of the gold-stage?" he said sharply.

"That?" Bill at once became serious. "Wal, that's pretty near right. You ain't yearnin' fer that gang to come snoopin' around Suffering Creek. So I'm guessin' we'll hev to pass a gold-stage out o' her some time."

"You're mad," cried Minky in consternation.

"That's as may be," retorted Bill, quite unruffled. "Anyways, I guess I spent a hundred dollars in a mighty good deal this day—if it was rotten bad poker."

And he turned away to talk to Slade of Kentucky, who entered the store at that moment with his friend O'Brien.



CHAPTER XII

THE WOMAN

The woman turned from the window at the sound of footsteps somewhere behind her. That was her way now. She started at each fresh sound that suggested anyone approaching. Her nerves were on edge for some reason she could never have put into words. She did not fear, yet a curious nervousness was hers which made her listen acutely at every footstep, and breathe her relief if the sound died away without further intrusion upon her privacy.

Presently she turned back to the window with just such relief. The footstep had passed. She drew her feet up into the ample seat of the rocking-chair, and, with her elbow resting upon its arm, heavily pressed her chin into the palm of her hand, and again stared at the rampart of mountains beyond.

Nor had all the beauties spread out before her yearning gaze the least appeal for her. How should they? Her thoughts were roaming in a world of her own, and her eyes were occupied in gazing upon her woman's pictures as she saw them in her mind. The wonders of that scene of natural splendor laid out before her had no power to penetrate the armor of her preoccupation. All her mind and heart were stirred and torn by emotions such as only a woman can understand, only a woman can feel. The ancient battle of titanic forces, which had brought into existence that world of stupendous might upon which her unseeing eyes gazed, was as nothing, it seemed, to the passionate struggle going on in her torn heart. To her there was nothing beyond her own regretful misery, her own dread of the future, her passionate revulsion at thoughts of the past.

The truth was, she had not yet found the happiness she had promised herself, that had been promised to her. She had left behind her all that life which, when it had been hers, she had hated. Her passionate nature had drawn her whither its stormy waves listed. And now that the tempest was passed, and the driving forces had ceased to urge, leaving her in a rock-bound pool of reflection, she saw the enormity of the step she had taken, she realized the strength of Nature's tendrils which still bound her no less surely.

The mild face of Scipio haunted her. She saw in her remorseful fancy his wondering blue eyes filled with the stricken look of a man powerless to resent, powerless to resist. She read into her thought the feelings of his simple heart which she had so wantonly crushed. For she knew his love as only a woman can. She had probed its depth and found it fathomless—fathomless in its devotion to herself. And now she had thrown him and his love, the great legitimate love of the father of her children, headlong out of her life.

A dozen times she bolstered her actions with the assurance that she did not want his love, that he was not the man she had ever cared for seriously, could ever care for. She told herself that the insignificance of his character, his personality, were beneath contempt. She desired a man of strength for her partner, a man who could make himself of some account in the world which was theirs.

No, she did not want Scipio. He was useless in the scheme of life, and she did not wish to have to "mother" her husband. Far rather would she be the slave of a man whose ruthless domination extended even to herself. And yet Scipio's mild eyes haunted her, and stirred something in her heart that maddened her, and robbed her of all satisfaction in the step she had taken.

But this was only a small part of the cause of her present mood. She had not at first had the vaguest understanding of the bonds which really fettered her, holding her fast to the life that had been hers for so long. Now she knew. And the knowledge brought with it its bitter cost. Some forewarning had been hers when she appealed to her lover for the possession of her children. But although her mother's instinct had been stirred to alarm at parting, she had not, at that time, experienced the real horror of what she was doing in abandoning her children.

She was inconsolable now. With all her mind and heart she was crying out for the warm, moist pressure of infant lips. Her whole body yearned for those who were flesh of her flesh, for the gentle beating hearts to which her body had given life. They were hers—hers, and of her own action she had put them out of her life. They were hers, and she was maddened at the thought that she had left them to another. They were hers, and—yes, she must have them. Whatever happened, they must be restored to her. Life would be intolerable without them.

She was in a wholly unreasoning state of mind. All the mother in her was uppermost, craving, yearning, panting for her own. For the time, at least, all else was lost in an overwhelming regret, and such a power of love for her offspring, that she had no room for the man who had brought about the separation.

She was a selfish woman, and had always craved for the best that life could give her, but now that her mother-love was truly roused her selfishness knew no bounds. She had no thought for anybody, no consideration. She could have none until her desire was satisfied.

Her tortured heart grew angry against Scipio. She was driven to fury against James. What mattered it that her lover had so far fulfilled all his other promises to her, if he did not procure the children and return them to her arms? What mattered it that she was surrounded with luxury uncommon on the prairie, a luxury she had not known for so many years?

She had her own rooms, where no one intruded without her consent. The spacious house had been ransacked to make them all that she could desire. All the outlaw's associates were herded into the background, lest their presence should offend her. Even James himself had refrained from forcing his attentions upon her, lest, in the first rush of feeling at her breaking with the old life, they should be unwelcome. His patience and restraint were wonderful in a man of his peculiar savagery. And surely it pointed his love for her. Had it been simply the momentary passion of an untamed nature, he would have waited for nothing, when once she had become his possession.

It was a curious anachronism that she should be the mistress of the situation with such a man as James. Yet so far she was mistress of the situation. The question was, how long would she remain so? It is possible that she had no understanding of this at first. It is possible that she would have resented such a question, had it occurred to her when she first consented to break away from her old life.

But now it was different. Now that she began to understand all she had flung away for this man, when the mother in her was at last fully aroused, and all her wits were driven headlong to discover a way by which to satisfy her all-consuming desire for her children, now the native cunning of the woman asserted itself. She saw in one revealing flash her position, she saw where lay her power at the moment, and she clung to it desperately, determined to play the man while she could to gain her ends.

Thus it was she was nervous, apprehensive, every time she thought it likely that her lover was about to visit her. She dreaded what might transpire. She dreaded lest her power should be weakened before she had accomplished her end. It was difficult; it was nerve-racking. She must keep his love at fever-heat. It was her one chance.

Again she started. It was the sound of a fresh footstep beyond the door. She glanced at the door with half-startled eyes and sat listening. Then her lips closed decidedly and a look of purpose crept into her eyes. A moment later she stood up. She was pale, but full of purpose.

"Is that you, Jim?" she called.

"Sure," came the ready response.

The next instant the door was flung open and the man came in.

His bronzed face was smiling, and the savage in him was hidden deep down out of sight. His handsome face was good to look upon, and as the woman's eyes surveyed his carefully clad slim figure she felt a thrill of triumph at the thought that he was hers at the raising of her finger.

But she faced him without any responsive smile. She had summoned him with a very definite purpose in her mind, and no display of anything that could be interpreted into weakness must be made.

"I want to talk to you," she said, pointing at the rocking-chair she had just vacated.

James glanced at the chair. Then his eyes turned back to her with a question in them. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and flung himself into the seat, and stretched out his long legs luxuriously.

Apparently Jessie had not noticed the shrug. It would have been better had she done so. She might then have understood more fully the man she was dealing with. However, she turned to the window and spoke with her back to him.

"It's about—things," she said a little lamely.

The man's smile was something ironical, as his eyes greedily devoured the beauty of her figure.

"I'm glad," he said in a non-committing way. Then, as no reply was immediately forthcoming, he added, "Get going."

But Jessie made no answer. She was thinking hard, and somehow her thoughts had an uneasy confusion in them. She was trying hard to find the best way to begin that which she had to say, but every opening seemed inadequate. She must not appeal, she must not dictate. She must adopt some middle course. These things she felt instinctively.

The man shifted his position and glanced round the room.

"Kind of snug here," he said pleasantly, running his eyes appreciatively over the simple decorations, the cheap bric-a-brac which lined the walls and, in a world where all decoration was chiefly conspicuous by its absence, gave to the place a suggestion of richness. The red pine walls looked warm, and the carpeted floor was so unusual as to give one a feeling of extraordinary refinement. Then, too, the chairs, scattered about, spoke of a strain after civilized luxury. The whole ranch-house had been turned inside out to make Jessie's quarters all she could desire them.

"Yes," he muttered, "it's sure snug." Then his eyes came back to the woman. "Maybe there's something I've forgotten. Guess you've just got to fix a name to it."

Jessie turned instantly. Her beautiful eyes were shining with a sudden hope, but her face was pale with a hardly controlled emotion.

"That's easy," she said. "I want my children. I want little Vada. I—I must have her. You promised I should. If you hadn't, I should never have left. I must have her." She spoke breathlessly, and broke off with a sort of nervous jolt.

In the pause that followed James' expression underwent a subtle change. It was not that there was any definite movement of a single muscle. His smile remained, but, somehow, through it peeped a hard look which had not been there before.

"So you want—the kids," he said at last, and a curious metallic quality was in his voice. "Say," he added thoughtfully, "you women are queer ones."

"Maybe we are," retorted Jessie. She tried to laugh as she spoke, but it was a dismal failure. Then she hurried on. "Yes," she cried a little shrilly, "it was part of our bargain, and—so far you have not carried it out."

"Bargain?" The man's brows went up.

"Yes, bargain."

"I don't remember a—bargain." James' eyes had in them an ominous glitter.

"Then you've got a bad memory."

"I sure haven't, Jess. I sure haven't that. I generally remember good. And what I remember now is that I promised you those kids if you needed them. I swore that you should have 'em. But I made no bargain. Guess women don't see things dead right. This is the first time you've spoken to me of this, and you say I haven't fulfilled my bargain. When I refuse to give you them kiddies, it's time to take that tone. You want them kids. Well—go on."

The change in her lover's manner warned Jessie that danger lay ahead. In the brief time she had spent under his roof she had already learned that, as yet, she had only seen the gentlest side of the man, and that the other side was always perilously near the surface.

In the beginning this had been rather a delight to her to think that she, of all people, was privileged to bask in the sunny side of a man who habitually displayed the storm clouds of his fiercer side to the world in general. But since that time a change, which she neither knew nor understood, had come over her, and, instead of rejoicing that he possessed that harsher nature, she rather feared it, feared that it might be turned upon her.

It was this change that had helped to bring her woman's cunning into play. It was this change which had brought her her haunting visions of the old life. It was this change which had prompted her that she must keep her lover at arm's length—as yet. It was this change, had she paused to analyze it, which might have told her of the hideous mistake she had made. That the passion which she had believed to be an absorbing love for the man was merely a passion, a base human passion, inspired in a weak, discontented woman. But as yet she understood nothing of this. The glamour of the man's personality still had power to sway her, and she acknowledged it in her next words.

"Don't be angry, Jim dear," she said, with a smile of seductive sweetness which had immediate effect upon the man. "You don't understand us women. We're sure unreasonable where our love is concerned."

Then a flush spread itself slowly over her handsome face, and passion lit her eyes.

"But I must have my children," she broke out suddenly. "One of them, anyhow—little Vada. You—you can't understand all it means to be away from them. They are mine. They are part of me. I—I feel I could kill anyone who keeps them from me. You promised, Jim, you sure did. Get her for me. My little girl—my little Vada."

The man had risen from his chair and moved to the window. He sat on the rough sill facing her. His eyes were hot with passion, too, but it was passion of a very different sort.

"And if I do?" he questioned subtly.

"If you do?" Jessie's eyes widened with a world of cunning simplicity.

"Yes, if I do?" The man's face was nearer.

"You'll have fulfilled your promise."

Jessie had turned again to the window, and her eyes were cold.

The man's brows drew together sharply, and his dark eyes watched the perfect outline of her oval cheek. Then he drew a sharp breath, and biting words leapt to his lips. But he held them back with a sudden grip that was perilously near breaking. Jessie's power was still enormous with him. But this very power was maddening to a man of his nature, and the two must not come into too frequent conflict.

He suddenly laughed, and the woman turned in alarm at the note that sounded in it.

"Yes," he said tensely. "I'll fulfill my promise. It'll amuse me, sure, getting back at that Sufferin' Creek lay-out. I owe them something for keepin' back the gold-stages. You shall have Vada, sure."

He broke off for an instant and drew nearer. He leant forward, and one arm reached out to encircle her waist. But with an almost imperceptible movement the woman stood beyond his reach.

"And—and after?" he questioned, his arm still outstretched to embrace her.

The woman made no answer.

"And after?"

There was a hot glow in his tone. He waited. Then he went on.

"Then I'll have done everything," he said—"all that a man can do to make you happy. I'll have fulfilled all my promises. I'll—And you?" he went on, coming close up to her.

This time she did not repulse him. Instinct told her that she must not. Before all things she wanted Vada. So his arms closed about her, and a shower of hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face, her hair, her lips.

At last she pushed him gently away. For the moment all the old passion had been stirred, but now, as she released herself, an odd shiver passed through her body, and a great relief came to her as she stood out of his reach. It was the first real, definite feeling of repulsion she had had, and as she realized it a sudden fear gripped her heart, and she longed to rush from his presence. But, even so, she did not fully understand the change that was taking place in her. Her predominating thought was for the possession of little Vada, and she urged him with all the intensity of her longing.

"You'll get her for me?" she cried, with an excitement that transfigured her. "You will. Oh, Jim, I can never thank you sufficiently. You are good to me. And when will you get her—now? Oh, Jim, don't wait. You must do it now. I want her so badly. I wonder how you'll do it. Will you take her? Or will you ask Zip for her? I—I believe he would give her up. He's such a queer fellow. I believe he'd do anything I asked him. I sure do. How are you going to get her?"

The man was watching her with all the fire of his love in his eyes. It was a greedy, devouring gaze of which Jessie must have been aware had she only been thinking less of her child. Nor did he answer at once. Then slowly the passionate light died out of his eyes, and they became thoughtful.

"Tell me," the woman urged him.

Suddenly he looked into her face with a cruel grin.

"Sit down, Jess," he said sharply, "and write a letter to Zip asking him, in your best lingo, to let you have your kid. An' when you done that I'll see he gets it, an'—I'll see you get the kid. But make the letter good an' hot. Pile up the agony biz. I'll fix the rest."

For a moment the woman looked into his face, now lit with such a cruel grin. Something in her heart gave her pause. Somehow she felt that what she was called upon to do was intended to hurt Zip in some subtle way, and the thought was not pleasant. She didn't want to hurt Zip. She tried in those few seconds to probe this man's purpose. But her mind was not equal to the task. Surely a letter appealing to Zip could not really hurt him. And she wanted little Vada so much. It was this last thought that decided her. No, nothing should stand in her way. She steeled her heart against her better feelings, but with some misgivings, and sat down to write.

James watched her. She procured paper and pen, and he watched her bending over the table. No detail of her face and figure escaped his greedy eyes. She was very beautiful, so beautiful to him that he stirred restlessly, chafing irritably under the restraint he was putting upon himself. Again and again he asked himself why he was fool enough to do as he was doing. She was his. There was no one to stop him, no one but—her.

Ah! There was the trouble. Such was the man's temper that nothing could satisfy him that gave him no difficulty of attaining. His was the appetite of an epicure in all things. Everything in its way must be of the best, and to be of the best to him it must be the most difficult of achievement.

He waited with what patience he could until the letter was written. Then he watched Jessie seal and address it. Then she rose and stood staring down at the cruel missive. She knew it was cruel now, for, trading on the knowledge of the man who was to receive it, she had appealed through the channel of her woman's weakness to all that great spirit which she knew to abide in her little husband's heart.

James understood something of what was passing in her mind. And it pleased him to think of what he had forced her to do—pleased him as cruelty ever pleases the truly vicious.

At last she held the missive out to him.

"There it is," she said. And as his hand closed upon it her own was drawn sharply away, as though to avoid contact with his.

"Good," he said, with a peculiar grin.

For a moment the silence remained unbroken. Then the woman raised appealing eyes to his face.

"You won't hurt Zip?" she said in a voice that would surely have heartened the object of her solicitude had he heard it.

The man shook his head. His jaws were set, and his smile was unpleasing.

"Guess any hurtin' Zip gets'll be done by you."

"Ah, no, no!"

The woman reached out wildly for the letter, but James had passed swiftly out of the room.



CHAPTER XIII

BIRDIE AND THE BOYS

The derelicts of a mining camp must ever be interesting to the student of human nature, so wide is the field for study. But it were better to be a student, simply, when probing amongst the refuse heaps of life's debris. A sentimentalist, a man of heart, would quickly have it broken with the pity of it all. A city's tragedies often require search to reveal them, but upon the frontier tragedy stalks unsepulchered in the background of nearly every life, ready to leap out in all its naked horror and settle itself leech-like upon the sympathetic heart, stifling it with the burden of its misery.

No, it is not good to delve into the dark pages of such folks' lives too closely, unless armored with impenetrable callousness. But one cannot help wondering whence all those living tragedies come. Look at the men. For the most part strong, able creatures, apparently capable of fighting the lusty battle of life with undiminished ardor. Look at the women. They are for the most part thinking women, healthy, capable. And yet—well, nine-tenths of them are not so cut off from their home cities, their friends and relatives, without some more than ordinary reason.

It is a sad sight to see the women plunged headlong into the fight for existence in such places, to witness the cruel iron thrust upon them its searing brand, to watch all the natural softness of their sex harden to the necessary degree for a successful issue to the battle, to witness their frequent unsexing and ultimate degradation. Such results are common enough when a woman enters the lists. It is so often a mere question of time. And when the end is achieved, how awful, how revolting, but how natural.

How Birdie Mason came to find herself the one woman on Suffering Creek—leaving out the later advent of Scipio's wife—it is not for us to ask. Whatever her little tragedy it is hers alone, and does not concern us. All that we need think of is her future, and the pity that so well-favored a woman has not found her lot cast in places where her womanhood has its best chances. However, she is there, living the life of all such hired "helps," drudging from morning till night in one long round of sordid labor, in an atmosphere stinking with the fetid breath of debased humanity.

But as yet the life has made no inroads upon her moral health. Her sunny good nature sets her singing over the most grinding labors. Her smiling face, and ready tongue, give her an air of happiness and joy of life which seems well-nigh invincible. And her popularity contrives her many thrilling moments and advantages which she is too much a woman and a child to deny herself.

Her day's work ends with the after supper "wash up," a dreary routine which might well crush the most ardent spirit. Yet she bends over her tubs full of crockery dreaming her sunny dreams, building her little castles to the clink of enameled tin cups, weaving her romances to the clatter of cutlery, smiling upon the mentally conjured faces of her boys amidst the steaming odors of greasy, lukewarm water. The one blot upon her existence is perhaps the Chinese cook, with whom she has perforce to associate. She dislikes him for no other reason than that he is a "yaller-faced doper that ought to been set to herd with a menagerie of measly skunks." But even this annoyance cannot seriously damp her buoyancy, and, with wonderful feminine philosophy, she puts him out of her mind as a "no account feller, anyway."

She was putting the finishing touches to the long dining-table, making it ready for the next day's breakfast. It was not an elaborate preparation. She "dumped" a box of knives and forks at each end of it, and then proceeded to chase any odd bits of debris from the last meal on to the floor with a duster. Then, with a hand-broom and pan, she took these up and with them any other rubbish that might be lying about. Finally, she set jugs of drinking water at intervals down the center of the table, and her work was done.

She looked about her, patting her fair hair with that eminently feminine touch which is to be seen in every woman from the millionaire's wife down to the poorest emigrant. Then, with less delicacy, she lifted her apron and wiped the moisture from her round young face.

"Guess that's 'most everything," she murmured, her eyes brightening at the contemplation of her completed task. "I'll just cut out them—"

She went to a cupboard and drew out a parcel of white lawn and paper patterns, which she carefully spread out on the table. And, in a few moments, she was bending absorbedly over the stuff, lost in the intricacies of hewing out an embryonic garment for her personal adornment.

It was at this task that Toby Jenks found her. He was worried to death at the thought that, as a member of the newly formed Zip Trust, it was his duty to gather information concerning the management of children. However, in the midst of his trouble he hit on the brilliant idea of consulting the only woman of his acquaintance.

Toby wanted to do something startling in the interests of the Trust. He felt that his membership had been conferred in a rather grudging spirit. And, to his mildly resentful way of thinking, it seemed it would be a good thing if he could surprise his friends with the excellence of his services in the general interests of the concern.

Birdie heard the door open, and raised a pair of startled eyes at the intruder. It was not that such visits were out of order, or even uncommon, but they generally occurred after pre-arrangement, which gave her the opportunity of "fixing herself right."

With a wild grab she scrambled her material, and the pattern, so that its identification would be quite impossible to male eyes, and hugged it in her arms. Turning swiftly she thrust it into the cupboard, and slammed the door. But she had no resentment at the interruption. Toby was quite a new visitor, and, well—the more the merrier.

She turned to him all smiles, and Toby returned her welcome something sheepishly. He cut a quaint figure with his broad, ungainly shoulders supporting his rather pumpkin face. Then his arms were a little too long and terminated in two "leg-of-mutton" hands.

"Evenin', Birdie," he said bashfully. "Guess you were sewin'?"

"Guess again," cried the girl readily, her eyes dancing at the contemplation of a few moments' badinage with a new candidate for her favors.

"Well, you wa'an't playin' the pianner."

But Birdie was quite equal to the best efforts of her candidates.

"My, but ain't you slick?" she cried, allowing her smiling gaze to remain looking straight into his face in a way she knew never failed to confuse her admirers on Suffering Creek. She watched till the sturdy man's eyes turned away, and knew that he was groping for an adequate retort. This effect was the result of practice with her, a practice she thoroughly enjoyed.

The "leg-of-mutton" hands fumbled their way into the tops of Toby's trousers, and, with a sudden self-assertion, which fitted him badly, he lurched over to the table, beyond which Birdie was standing. It was his intention to seat himself thereon, but his tormentor had not yet reached the point where she could allow such intimacy.

"Say, I ain't ast you to sit around," she said, with an alluring pout. "Men-folk don't sit around in a lady's' parlor till they're ast. 'Sides, the table's fixed fer breakfast. And anyway it ain't for settin' on."

Toby moved away quickly, his attempt at ease deserting him with ludicrous suddenness. At sight of his blushing face Birdie relaxed her austerity.

"Say, ain't you soft?" she declared, with a demure lowering of her lids. "I've allus heerd say, you only got to tell a feller don't, an' he sure does it quick. Men-folk is that contrary. Now—"

The encouragement brought its reward. Toby promptly sat himself on the table and set it creaking.

"Well, I do declare!" cried Birdie, in pretended indignation. "And I never ast you, neither. I don't know, I'm sure. Some folks has nerve."

But this time Toby was not to be intimidated. Perhaps it was the girl's bright smile. Perhaps, with marvelous inspiration, he saw through her flirtatious methods. Anyway, he remained where he was, grinning sheepishly up into her face.

"Guess you best push me off. I ain't heavy," he dared her clumsily.

"I sure wouldn't demean myself that way," she retorted. "Gee, me settin' hands on a feller like you. It would need a prize-fighter."

The acknowledgment of his size and strength was a subtle tribute which pleased the man, as it was intended to. He preened himself and drew his knees up into his arms, in an attitude intended to be one of perfect ease and to show his confidence.

"I sure ain't much of a feller for strength," he said modestly, eyeing his enormous arms and hands affectionately. "You ought to see Wild Bill. He—he could eat me, an' never worry his digestion."

Birdie laughed happily. She was always ready to laugh at a man's attempt at humor. That was her way.

"You are a queer one," she said, seating herself on the opposite edge of the table, so that she was sufficiently adjacent, and at the requisite angle at which to carry on her flirtation satisfactorily. "Say," she went on, with a down drooping of her eyelids, "why ain't you in there playin' poker? Guess you're missin' heaps o' fun. I wish I was a 'boy.' I wouldn't miss such fun by sitting around in here."

"Wouldn't you?" Toby grinned, while his brains struggled to find a happy reply. "Well, you see," he hazarded at last, "poker an' whisky ain't to be compared to talkin' to a dandy fine gal with yaller hair an' elegant blue eyes."

He passed one of his great hands across his forehead as though his attempt had made him perspire. But he had his reward. Birdie contrived a blush of pleasure, and edged a little nearer to him.

"Gee, you can talk pretty," she declared, her lips parted in an admiring smile. "It makes me kind o' wonder how you fellers learn it." Then she added demurely, "But I ain't pretty, nor nothing like you fellers try to make out. I'm jest an ord'nary sort of girl."

"No you ain't," broke in Toby, feeling that his initial success had put him on the top of the situation, and that he had nothing now to fear. Besides, he really felt that Birdie was an uncommonly nice girl, and, in a vague way, wondered he had never noticed it before.

"That you ain't," he went on emphatically. Then he added as though to clinch his statement, "not by a sight."

This brought him to a sudden and uncomfortable stop. He knew he ought to go on piling up compliment on compliment to make good his point. But he had emptied his brain cells by his threefold denial, and now found himself groping in something which was little better than a vacuum. And in his trouble he found himself wishing he was gifted with Sunny's wit. Wild Bill's force would have carried him through, or even Sandy Joyce's overweening confidence would have kept his head above water. As it was he was stuck. Hopelessly, irretrievably at the end of his resources.

He perspired in reality now, and let his knees drop out of his arms. This movement was his salvation. With the relaxing of his physical effort the restraining grip upon his thinking powers gave way. Inspiration leaped, and he found himself talking again almost before he was aware of it.

"You're a real pretty gal, Birdie," he heard himself saying. "Now, maybe you got some kids?" he added, with an automatic grin of ingratiation.

How the inquiry slipped out he never knew. How it had been formulated in his brain remained a riddle that he was never able to solve. But there it was, plain and decided. There was no shirking it. It was out in all its naked crudeness.

There was a moment's pause which might have been hours, it seemed so horribly long to the waiting man. He became dimly aware of a sudden hardening in Birdie's eyes, a mounting flush to her cheeks and forehead, a sudden, astounding physical movement, and then the work-worn palm of her hand came into contact with his cheek with such force as to prove the value to her physical development of the strenuous labors which were hers.

He never thought a woman's hand could sting so much. He never thought that he could be made to feel so mean as this girl's sudden vehemence made him feel.

"How dare you, you bumming remittance feller?" she cried, with eyes blazing and bosom heaving. "How dare you—you—you—" And then she further punished him with that worst of all feminine punishments—she burst into tears.

The next few moments were never quite clear to the distracted and unthinking Toby. He never really knew what actually happened. He had a confused memory of saying things by way of apology, of making several pacific overtures, which met with physical rebuffs of no mean order, and tearful upbraidings which were so mixed up with choking sniffs as to be fortunately more or less unintelligible. Finally, when he came to his ordinary senses, and the dead level of his understanding was fully restored, he found himself grasping the girl firmly by the waist, her golden head lying snugly on his massive shoulder, and with a distinct recollection of warm ripe lips many times pressed upon his own. All of which was eminently pleasing.

When once these comfortable relations were thoroughly established, he had no difficulty in clearing the clouds from her horizon, and relegating her tears into the background. Her nature was of a much too smiling order to need a great deal of coaxing. But explanation was needed, and explanation never came easily to this stalwart dullard.

"Y'see, what I meant was," he said, with a troubled frown of intense concentration, "maybe you know about kids. I didn't mean offense, I sure didn't. Everybody knows our Birdie to be jest a straight, up-standin', proper gal, who wouldn't hurt nobody, nor nuthin', 'cep' it was a buzzin' fly around the supper hash. No feller don't take no account o' her bein' a pot-wallopin', hash-slingin' mutton rustler. It sure ain't no worse than ladlin' swill to prize hogs. It's jest in the way o' business. 'Sides, she don't need to care what no fellers thinks. She ain't stuck on men-folk wuth a cent."

"That I sure ain't," asserted a smothered voice from the bosom of his dirty shirt.

"That you ain't," he reassured her. "You're jest a dandy gal as 'ud make any feller with a good patch o' pay dirt a real elegant sort o' wife."

The golden head snuggled closer into his shirt.

"You ain't got no patch o' pay dirt, Toby?" she inquired.

Toby shook his head all unsuspiciously.

"No sech luck," he asserted. Then with a sudden burst of gallantry, "If I had I don't guess there'd be no Birdie Mason chasin' around these parts unbespoke."

The girl's eyes developed an almost childish simplicity as they looked up into his foolish face.

"What d'you mean?"

"Mean? Why, jest nothin', only—"

Toby laughed uneasily. And a shadow crossed Birdie's face.

"I don't guess the patch o' pay dirt matters a heap," she said, with subtle encouragement.

"That's so," agreed Toby.

"Y'see, a gal don't marry a feller fer his patch o' pay dirt," she went on, doing her best.

"Sure she don't."

But Toby's enthusiasm was rapidly cooling. The girl breathed a sigh of perfect content. And her heavy breathing was fast making a moist patch amidst the gravel stains on his shirt front.

"She jest loves a feller—"

Toby's arm slipped from her waist, and a hunted look crept into his foolish eyes.

"An' she don't care nothin'—"

The man was suddenly seized with a racking fit of coughing, which somehow jolted the girl into an upright position.

"Course she don't," he agreed, when his paroxysm had passed. "Say, you don't think I got newmony?" he inquired, feeling the need for an abrupt change of subject. "I was allus weak-chested as a kid. An' talkin' o' kids," he hurried on, in his terror recalling the object of his visit, "guess you ken put me wise."

"Kids? I wasn't talkin' of kids," protested the girl a little angrily.

She was hurt. Cruelly hurt. All her best efforts had gone for nothing. A moment before Toby had seemed so nearly hers, and now—

"No. I didn't guess you were. But—that is—you see—"

The man floundered heavily and broke off. His look was one of comical confusion and trouble. So much so that it was too much for the girl's good nature.

"Whose kids?" she demanded, the familiar smile creeping back into her eyes, and her lips pursing dryly. "Yours?"

"Oh, no," denied the man quickly. "Not mine. It's Zip's. Y'see, since his wife's lit out he's kind o' left with 'em. An' he's that fool-headed he don't know how to raise 'em proper. So I guessed I'd help him. Now, if you put me wise—"

"You help raise Zip's kids? Gee!" The girl slid off the table and stood eyeing him, her woman's humor tickled to the limit.

But Toby did not realize it. He was in deadly earnest now.

"Yes," he said simply. Then, with a gleam of intelligence, "How'd you raise 'em?"

The girl was suddenly stirred to a feeling of good-humored malice.

"How'd I raise 'em? Why, it ain't jest easy."

"It sure ain't," agreed Toby heartily. "Now, how'd you feed 'em?"

Birdie became judicially wise.

"Well," she began, "you can't jest feed 'em same as ord'nary folks. They need speshul food. You'll need to give 'em boiled milk plain or with pap, you kin git fancy crackers an' soak 'em. Then ther's beef-tea. Not jest ord'nary beef-tea. You want to take a boilin' o' bones, an' boil for three hours, an' then skim well. After that you might let it cool some, an' then you add flavorin'. Not too much, an' not too little, jest so's to make it elegant tastin'. Then you cook toasties to go with it, or give 'em crackers. Serve it to 'em hot, an' jest set around blowin' it so it don't scald their little stummicks. Got that? You can give 'em eggs, but not too much meat. Meat well done an' cut up wi' vegetables an' gravy, an' make 'em eat it with a spoon. Knives is apt to cut 'em. Eggs light boiled, an' don't let 'em rub the yolk in their hair, nor slop gravy over their bow-ties. Candy, some, but it ain't good for their teeth, which needs seein' to by a dentist, anyway. Say, if they're cuttin' teeth you ken let 'em chew the beef bones, it helps 'em thro'. Fancy canned truck ain't good 'less it's baked beans, though I 'lows beans cooked reg'lar is best. You soak 'em twenty-four hours, an' boil 'em soft, an' see the water don't boil away. Fruit is good if they ain't subjec' to colic, which needs poultices o' linseed, an' truck like that. Don't let 'em eat till they're blown up like frogs, an'—you got all that?"

"Ye-es," replied the bewildered man a little helplessly.

"Well," continued the smiling girl, "then there's their manners an' things."

Toby nodded vaguely.

"You'll need to give 'em bed at sundown," Birdie hurried on. "An' up at sunrise. Clothes needs washin' at least once a month—with soap. See they says their prayers, an' bath 'em once a week reg'lar—with soap. But do it Sundays. An' after that give 'em a Bible talk for an hour. Then I dessay they'll need physic once a week—best give it Saturday nights. Don't fix 'em that way same as a horse, their stummicks ain't made of leather. You got all that?"

Toby gave a bewildered nod.

"How 'bout when they're sick?" he asked.

"Sick? Why, see they don't muss their clothes," Birdie answered cheerfully. "Guess that's put you wise to most everything."

"Sure." Toby slid from the table, feeling dazed. Nor had he the courage to ask any more questions. He was trying hard to fix the salient points of the information in his whirling brain, but all he could remember was that all washing must be done with soap, and the children must have bones to keep their teeth right. He clung to these things desperately, and felt that he must get away quickly before they, too, should slip through the sieve of his memory.

"Guess I'll git along an'—an' see to things," he murmured vaguely, without glancing in Birdie's direction. "You said beef bones?" he added, passing a hand perplexedly across his forehead.

"Sure," smiled the girl.

"Good. Thanks." Then he moved heavily off. "Beef bones and soap—bath an' Bible talk; beef bones an' soap—"

The girl watched him vanish behind the closing door, muttering as he went to "see to things."

She stood for some moments where he had left her. The smile was still in her eyes, but its humor had died out. She was unfeignedly sorry he had gone. He was such a good-natured simpleton, she thought. A real good-hearted sort. Just the sort to make a husband worth having. Ah, well, he had gone! Better luck next time.

She turned away with a deep, sentimental sigh, and crossed over to the cupboard. She drew out her work once more and again spread out the crumpled paper pattern upon the gossamer lawn.

Yes, Toby would have suited her well. She heaved another sigh. He had remittances from home, too. And he wouldn't be difficult to manage. His head was rather a funny shape, and his face didn't suggest brightness, but then—

She began to snip at the material with her rusty scissors. But just as her mind had fully concentrated upon her task a sudden sound startled her. She looked up, listening, and the next moment the door was flung wide, and Sandy Joyce stood framed in the opening.



CHAPTER XIV

BIRDIE GIVES MORE ADVICE

The ordinary woman would probably have resented this second interruption, taking into consideration the nature of Birdie's occupation, and the fact that Toby's visit had hardly proved a success from her point of view. But Birdie was only partially ordinary. Her love and admiration for the opposite sex was so much the chief part of her composition that all other considerations gave way before it. Her heart thrilled with a sickly sentiment at all times. To her men were the gods of the universe, and, as such, must be propitiated, at least in theory. In practice it might be necessary to flout them, to tease them, even to snub them—on rare occasions. But this would only come after intimacy had been established. After that her attitude would be governed by circumstances, and even then her snubs, her floutings, her teasing, would only be done as a further lure, a further propitiation. She loved them all with a wonderful devotion. Her heart was large, so large that the whole race of men could have been easily lost in its mysterious and obscure recesses.

Again her work was bundled into the cupboard, the poor flimsy pattern further suffering. But beyond a casual wonder if the garment would eventually be wearable, cut from so mangled a pattern, she had no real care.

Her smiling eyes turned readily upon the newcomer the moment her secret labors had been hidden from prying male eyes. And there was no mistaking her cordiality for this cold-eyed visitor.

"Sakes alive! but you do look fierce," she cried challengingly. "You sure must be in a bad temper."

But Sandy's expression was simply the outcome of long and difficult consideration. As a matter of fact, in his hard way, he was feeling very delighted. His past married experience had brought him to the conviction that here was the only person in Suffering Creek who could help him.

And, furthermore, he was well satisfied to think that only his experience as a married man could have suggested to him this means of gaining the information required by their president, and so shown him the way to surpass his comrades in his efforts on behalf of the Trust.