But his knowledge of womankind warned him that he must not be too hasty. He must not show his hand until he had established himself in a favorable position in the susceptible Birdie's heart. With this object in view he set himself to offer his blandishments in characteristic fashion. He did not suffer from Toby's complaint of bashfulness. Married life had cured him of that. In consequence, his method, if crude, was direct.

"I can't say the same of you, Birdie," he declared unsmilingly. "You're bloomin' as—as a kebbige."

"Kebbige?" sniffed the girl.

"Kebbige, sure," nodded the man of married experience. "Guess mebbe it ain't a bokay fer smell. But fer taste—with corned beef? Gee!"

Birdie took no umbrage.

"You got to it—after awhiles," she remarked slyly. Then she added, with a gush, "D'you know, I'm allus most scared to death of you men. You're that big an' strong, it makes me feel you could well-nigh eat me."

Sandy availed himself of the invitation.

"A tasty mouthful," he declared. And without more ado he passed round the table, caught her quickly in his arms, and, without the smallest expression of interest, kissed her. If interest were lacking, his movements were so swift that, had the girl the least idea of avoiding the embrace—which she hadn't—she would have found it difficult to do so.

"You men are ones!" she declared, with a little gasp, as his arms fell from about her.

"How's that?"

"I never did—the cheek of some of you!"

"A feller needs cheek," replied the self-satisfied widower. "'Specially with pretty gals around," he added condescendingly.

Birdie eyed him archly.

"Gals?" she inquired.

"I should have said 'gal.'"

The laughing nod that rewarded him assured Sandy that he was well on the right track, and at once he took the opportunity of introducing the object of his visit.

"Say," he began, "guess you never tho't o' gettin' hitched up to a feller?"

Birdie lowered her eyelids and struggled for a blush, which somehow defied her best efforts. But her subtleties were quite lost upon Sandy, and in his eagerness he waited for no reply.

"No, course you hain't. You got so many beaus to choose from. 'Sides," he added thoughtfully, "gettin' married sure needs special savvee. What I mean," he explained, seeing the amused wonder in the girl's now wide eyes, "you kind o' need eddicatin' to git married. Y'see, when you get fixed that way you sort of, in a manner of speakin', got to unlearn things you never learnt, an' learn them things what can't never be taught. What I mean is, marriage is a sort of eddication of itself, wot don't learn you nuthin' till you git—unmarried. Savee?"

The girl shook her head in bewilderment.

"That's sure too bright fer me."

"That's 'cos you ain't been married. Y'see, I have."

"Can't you put it easier—seein' I ain't been married?"

"Sure I can." Sandy took up a position, on the edge of the table with such a judicial air that the girl started to giggle.

"See here," he began largely. "Now what d'you know 'bout kids—raisin' 'em, I mean?"

The girl's eyes twinkled on the verge of laughing outright.

"Zip's kids?" she inquired shrewdly.

Sandy started and frowned.

"What d'you mean—Zip's kids?"

"Oh, just nothing," said Birdie airily. "Seein' kids was in your mind, I naturally tho't o' Zip's."

Sandy nodded. But he was only half convinced. How on earth, he wondered, did she know he was thinking of Zip's kids? He felt that it would be best to nip that idea in the bud. It was undignified that he should appear to be interested in Zip's twins.

"I ain't interested in no special kids," he said, with some dignity. "I was just theorizin'—like. Now, if you got married, wot you know of raisin' kids? Guess you're that ignorant of the subject maybe you'd feed 'em hay?"

Birdie laughed dutifully, but her retort was rather disconcerting.

"You bin married—how'd you feed 'em? I'm learning."

"How'd I feed 'em?" Sandy eyed his tormentor severely. "That ain't the question. How'd you feed 'em?"

The girl thought for a moment, and then looked up brightly.

"If they was Zip's kids—"

"I said they ain't."

"Well, if they were, I'd say—"

"See here, cut Zip's kids out. They ain't in this shootin' match," cried Sandy testily.

But Birdie persisted slyly.

"Y'see, I must get some kids in my eye if I'm to answer you right," she said. "I can see things better that way. Now, if they were Zip's kids—"

"Which they ain't," asseverated the man doggedly.

"Which they ain't," nodded Birdie, "I'd feed 'em cereals an' pap—"

Sandy's face suddenly cleared. His whole being seemed to expand.

"Say, you're a bright gal," he declared. "Cereals an' pap. That's dead right. Say, you know more than—You'd give 'em milk to drink—now?" he suggested.

"Oh no, nothing like that. Water."

The man looked disappointed.

"Water?" he said. "You sure of that? But I guess you'd give 'em banannys?"

Again the girl shook her head.

"Fruit gives 'em colic."

"Ah, yes, that's so. They'd need physic then, wouldn't they?"

"You need to be easy with physic, too," declared the girl, with sparkling eyes. "Don't give 'em physic ever unless they're real sick."

The man's crestfallen appearance set Birdie giggling. She was enjoying the situation. She meant to upset all Sandy's preconceived ideas.

"Now, pork?" he suggested, but with less assurance.

But Birdie was obdurate.

"Never," she declared emphatically. "Beans, yes. There's good nourishment in beans. Then ther's fresh vegetables—heaps of 'em."

"Ah! Now, how 'bout fixin' them right—the kids, I mean? Guess they'll need bathin'."

But Birdie fell upon him with a strong denial.

"Bath?" she cried. "Gee! you do run on. Guess you want to hand 'em newmony. Kids sure don't never need bathin'. Jest a lick with soap an' hot water once a week. An' say," she went on, suddenly remembering something she had told Toby in a fit of mischief, "kep their food soft, or you'll break their young teeth."

Sandy's eyes lit, and in an unguarded moment he admitted that the thought had occurred to him. Birdie caught him up at once.

"I tho't you was just astin' me these questions to see if I was right for gettin' married?" she protested innocently.

"That's so—course," he said hastily. Then he wriggled out of it. "But how'd I be able to say you was right if I hadn't tho't on things some myself?"

"Ah! I didn't just think of that."

"Course not. Gals never see the fine points of good argyment."

Sandy's superiority was overwhelming, but Birdie had borne with him with amused patience until now. She had known him a long time as a boarder, but never until now had she realized the blundering conceit that was his. She felt that she had given him rope enough, and it was time to bring him up with a jerk.

"Thank you kindly, sir," she mocked him, curtseying.

"You're welcome, ma'am," Sandy returned, with a clumsy bow, failing to realize her change of attitude.

"If you guess I'm right for marryin', maybe you'll hand me my diploma," she said, with a demure down-drooping of her eyelids.

She waited, and finally glanced up into his flushed face. Her sarcasm had struck home at last, and without hesitation she went on mercilessly—

"Say, if you ain't goin' to hand me a diploma, guess you can let me get on with my sewin'. Havin' been a married man, maybe you'll understand men-folk ain't a heap of use around when a woman's sewin'. Guess they're handy ladlin' out most things, but I'd say a man ain't no more use round the eye of a needle than a camel."

Sandy's dignity and temper were ruffled. It was inconceivable that Birdie—or, as he mentally apostrophized her, "this blamed hash-slinger"—should so flout him. How dared she? He was so angry that words for once utterly failed him, and he moved towards the door with gills as scarlet as any blustering turkey-cock. But Birdie had no idea of sparing him, and hurled her final sarcasm as she turned again to her cupboard.

"I'd hate to be one o' Zip's kids with you gettin' busy around me," she cried, chuckling in an infuriating manner.

It was too much for Sandy. He turned fiercely as he reached the door.

"You're 'bug,'" he declared roughly. "I tell you, Zip's kids ain't nothin' to do with me—"

"Which, I'd say, was lucky for them," cried Birdie airily.

"An' I'd jest like to say that when a genelman gits around to do the perlite by a no-account mutton-worrier, he figgers to be treat right—"

Birdie turned on him with cold eyes.

"I'll sure be treatin' you right," she said, "when I tell you that door don't need shuttin' after you. It's on the swing."

She did not wait to witness her guest's departure. She felt it would not be graceful, under the circumstances. So, pushing her head into the cupboard, she once more gathered up her work.

When the soft swish of the swing-door told her that Sandy's departure had been taken, she emerged with her bundle and spread it out on the table for the third time. She was all smiles. She was not a bit angry with the foolish widower. This dogmatic attitude of mind, this wonderful self-satisfaction, were peculiar to the creature; he couldn't help it. But it had roused a mischievous spirit in her, and the temptation was too great to resist. The only thing she regretted was having let him kiss her, and she at once put up her hand to wipe the spot where the operation had been performed. At any rate, she had certainly taken him down a peg or two, and the thought set her in high good-humor.

Nor could she help wondering at his stupidity in imagining she couldn't see through his desire for information about children. It was laughable, coming after Toby's. Oh, these men! They were dear, foolish creatures. Poor kids, she thought, her mind reverting to Zip's twins. What had they done to have this pack of foolish people worrying over them? Were they all going to take a hand in bringing the youngsters up? Well, anyhow, she pitied them.

She smiled at her thoughts as the busy scissors snipped their way round the pattern. These men were too funny. First Toby, now Sandy—who next?

She started and looked up, her scissors poised in the air. The swing-door had swished open, and Wild Bill stood before her.

"Good sakes!" she cried. "How you scared me!" Then, realizing what lay before her, she grabbed up her work, and was for returning it to the cupboard.

But Wild Bill was in a hurry. Besides, he had nothing of the ingratiating ways of the other men about him. He saw her object, and stayed her in his own peculiar authoritative fashion.

"Say, you can quit huggin' them fixin's," he cried. "I ain't come pryin' around a leddy's wardrobe. You ken jest set down with paper an' ink an' things, an' write down how best Zip's kids can be raised. I'll git right back for it in ha'f-an-hour."

Nor did he wait for any reply. It was taken for granted that his demands would be promptly acceded to, and he vanished as abruptly as he came. The swing-door closed, and Birdie gave a sigh.

"An' him, too," she murmured. "Well, I do declare. It just licks creation."

But this was a different proposition to either Toby or Sandy. She sprang to her task for the great Wild Bill in a way that spoke volumes for her sentimental heart. Wild Bill? Well, she would never have owned it, but there was just one man in the world that scared Birdie to death, and at the same time made her think her path was a bed of roses, and that was Wild Bill. In an astonishingly short time she was sitting at the table poring over a writing-pad, and biting the already well-chewed end of a pen.

* * * * *

Outside, in the smoke-laden atmosphere of the store, amidst the busy click of poker chips and clink of glasses, Wild Bill was talking earnestly to Minky, who was standing behind the counter.

They had been talking for some time. Minky's eyes frequently wandered in the direction of a table where four strangers were playing. But no one could have guessed, in his quiet scrutiny, the anxiety that lay behind it.

"You must git out to-night?" he inquired of his hawk-visaged friend.

"Sure," responded Bill absently.

"High finance?"

Bill nodded, with the ghost of a smile.

"A gang of rich guys," he said. "They're gathering at Spawn City for a financial descent on Suffering Creek. They're all minin' folk. Guess they'll be yearning for a big game."

"When'll you git back?"

"Noon, day after to-morrow, maybe."

Bill had turned away, and was abstractedly contemplating the strangers. Suddenly he turned again, and his steely eyes fixed themselves on the troubled Minky.

"Say, things is gettin' on your nerves. It ain't yet. Those folks is only lookin' fer pointers."

"An' findin' 'em?"

"Mebbe. But it takes time. Say, we ain't dead in Suffering Creek yet. I'll be around before—"

"Trouble gits busy." Minky laughed hollowly.

"Sure. I'm most gener'ly around when trouble—gits busy. I'm made like that."

"I'm glad."

Bill drank up the remains of his drink and began to move away.

"Wher' you going now?" inquired Minky.

"See my plugs fed an' watered, and then gittin' around my shack. I've got to see some folks before I hit the trail. Say, I ain't got big enough wad. Best hand me a couple o' thousand."

Minky dived under his counter, and, after fumbling for some time, reappeared with the required sum in United States currency.

"Good luck," he said, as he passed it across the counter cautiously.

"Thanks. An', say—see the boys keep a close eye on Zip—an' the kids. So long."

He moved away, but instead of passing out of the front door he disappeared into the dining-room at the back.



CHAPTER XV

THE TRUST AT WORK

Wild Bill's hut presented an unusually animated appearance. The customary oil-lamp was receiving the support of two vilely smelling yellow candles. The additional light thus obtained was hardly in proportion to the offensiveness of the added aroma. Still, the remoter corners of the place were further lit up, and the rough faces of the four occupants of the room were thrown into stronger relief.

But the animation of the scene was rather a matter of visual illusion than actuality. For Wild Bill, in his right of proprietorship, was lounging on his blanketed bunk, while Toby's inanimate form robbed him of the extreme foot of it. Sunny Oak was hugging to himself what comfort there was to be obtained from the broken chair, which usually supported Bill's wash bucket, set well within elbow-reach of the table on which the illuminations had been placed. Sandy Joyce with unusual humility—possibly the result of his encounter with Birdie—was crouching on an upturned cracker box.

There was a wonderful intentness, expectancy in every eye except Bill's. In Toby's there was triumphal anticipation, in Sandy's a conscious assurance. Bill had just come in from preparing his horses for their night journey, and, with an hour and more to spare, and the prospect of a long night before him, was anxious to take things as easy as possible.

Reaching his arms above his head he pushed his hands behind it for support, and opened the proceedings.

"You fellers been busy?" he inquired.

And promptly every mouth opened to give proud assurance. But the gambler checked the impulse with grating sarcasm.

"I ain't got but one pair ears," he said, "so you'll each wait till you're ast questions. Bein' president o' this yer Trust I'll do most of the yappin'," he added grimly. "I'm goin' away to-night fer a couple o' days. That's why this meetin's called. An' the object of it is to fix things right for Zip, an' to 'range so he gits a chance to put 'em through. Now, I seen enough of him—an' others," with a swift, withering glance in Sunny's direction, "to know he's right up again a proposition that ain't no one man affair. Combination is the only bluff to fix them kids of his right. We've most of us got ideas, but like as not they ain't all we guess 'em to be. In some cases ther' ain't a doubt of it. Without sayin' nothin' of anybody, I sure wouldn't trust Toby here to raise a crop of well-grown weeds—without help. An' Sandy, fer all he's a married man, don't seem to have prospered in his knowledge of kids. As for Sunny, well, the sight of him around a kid ain't wholesome. An' as fer me, guess I may know a deal about cookin' a jack-pot, but I'd hate to raise the bet about any other kind o' pot. Seein' things is that way with us we'll git to work systematic. Ther' ain't a gamble in life that ain't worked the better fer a system. So, before we get busy, I'll ast you, Sunny, to grab the grip under my bunk, an' you'll find in it, som'eres under the card decks, paper an' ink. You'll jest fix them right, an' take things down, so we don't make no sort o' mistake."

He waited until Sunny had procured the necessary writing materials and set them out on the table. Then he went on in his strong, autocratic fashion.

"Now," he said, fixing his eyes on Toby. "You'se fellers has had time to make inquiries, an' knowing you fer bright boys I don't guess you lost any time. The subject is the raisin' of kids. Mebbe Toby, you bein' the youngest member of this doggone Trust, an' a real smart lad, mebbe you'll open your face an' give us pointers."

By the time he finished speaking every eye was turned on the triumphantly grinning Toby.

"I sure will," he said, with a confidence surprising in a man who had been so bashful in his interview with Birdie. Just for a moment one of his great hands went up to his cheek, and he gently smoothed it, as though the recollection of the slap he had received in the process of gathering information was being used to inspire his memory. "Y'see," he began, "I got friends around Suffering Creek what knows all about kids. So—so I jest asted 'em, Mr. President."

He cleared his throat and stared up at the roof. He was evidently struggling hard with memory.

Bill lolled over and drew a closely written document from his pocket and began to peruse it. Sandy tapped the floor impatiently with one foot. He was annoyed that his evidence was not demanded first. Sunny sat with pen poised, waiting for the word to write.

Toby's eyes grew troubled.

"What they chiefly need," he murmured, his face becoming more and more intent, "what they—chiefly—need—is—" He was laboring hard. Then suddenly his face brightened into a foolish smile. "I got it," he cried triumphantly, "I got it. What kids need is beef bones an' soap!"

In the deathly silence that followed his statement Toby looked for approving glances. But he looked in vain. Sunny had dropped his pen and made a blot on his paper. Sandy's annoyance had changed into malicious triumph. But the president of the Trust made no move. He merely let his small eyes emit a steely glance over the top of his paper, directed with stern disapproval on the hopeful "remittance" man.

"An' what 'bug-house,'" he inquired, with biting sarcasm, "is your bright friends spendin' their vacation at?"

Toby flushed to the roots of his unkempt hair. The sudden death of his triumph was almost tragic. His face fell, and his heavy jaw dropped in pathetic astonishment. But it was not Bill's sarcasm alone that so bit into his bones, it was the jeering light he witnessed in Sandy's eyes, combined with the undisguised ridicule of Sunny's open grin. His blood began to rise; he felt it tingling in the great extremities of his long arms. The obvious retort of the witless was surging through his veins and driving him.

But the Trust president was talking, and the calm of coming storm was held for a moment. But it is doubtful if the object of his harangue grasped anything of his meaning, so great was his anger against his grinning comrades.

"Beef bones an' soap!" cried Bill harshly, at the unheeding man. "If they was asses bones we'd sure only need to open up your family mausoleum to git enough bones to raise a farm o' babbies on. I'd like to say right here, the feller wot don't know the natural use o' soap is a danger to the health an' sanitary fixin's o' this yer camp. Beef bones an' soap!" he went on, as though the very combination of the words was an offense to his gastronomical senses. "You pumpkin-faced idjut, you mush-headed tank o' wisdom, you masterpiece of under-done mule brain, how in sizzlin' torment you're figgerin' to ladle soap into the vitals of inoffendin' babbies, an' push beef bones through their innercent stummicks, 'ud par'lize the brains of every science society in this yer country to know, an' drive the whole world o' physic dealers barkin' like a pack o' mangy coyotes wi' their bellies flappin' in a nor'-east blizzard. Gosh-dang it, you misfortunate offspring of Jonah parents, we're settin' out to raise kids. We ain't startin' a patent manure fact'ry, nor runnin' a Chinese hand laundry—"

But the president's picturesque flow was lost in a sudden commotion. The calm was broken, and the storm burst. The weight of ridicule in his comrades' faces was too much for Toby, and he leapt from the foot of the bunk on which he was sitting. He projected himself with more force than cunning in the direction of the grinning loafer, bent on bodily hurt to his victim. But his leap fell short by reason of Sunny's agility. The latter snatched up the oil-lamp and dodged behind the table, with the result that Toby's great body sent the candles flying, and itself fell amidst the legs of the upset table. He was on his feet in an instant, however, ready to continue with all his might his vengeful pursuit. But the heavy hand of Bill fell upon his coat collar with irresistible force, and, with a jerk, he was hurled across the room out of harm's way.

"Ther's more hell to the back o' that if you come ag'in, Toby," the gambler cried, with cold threat. "An' as for you, Sunny," he went on, turning on the Trust secretary, "I'll set the boys to wash you clean in Minky's trough if you so much as smile ag'in till we're through. Fix them candles, an' sit right down—the lot of you."

He stood for a moment eyeing the lurid face of Toby. Nor did he move until the burly remittance man had pulled himself together. He watched him settle himself again on the foot of the bunk, passive but inwardly raging. Then, as the candles were once more replaced in the bottles and lit, he calmly picked up his document and returned to his couch. The whole episode passed in a few moments, and outward equanimity was quickly restored. Such was the hot, impulsive nature of these men.

The president lost no time in proceeding with the business in hand. He addressed his friends generally.

"I ain't goin' to say a word 'bout the elegant information gathered by our bright junior member," he said slowly. "You've all heard it, an' I guess that's sure all that's needed. Wher' he got it, is his funeral—or should be. Leastways, if it ain't satisfact'ry it shows laudable enterprise on his part—which is good for this yer Trust."

He paused and referred to his document. And in that moment, burning to further crush Toby, and add to his own glorification by reason of the superiority of his information, Sandy cleared his throat to speak. This was to be the moment of his triumph. He meant to wipe out the memory of past failures in one sweep.

"I consulted a lady friend of mine—" he began. But Bill waved him to silence.

"You needn't worry nothin'," he said coldly. "I got it all wrote down here."

"How you got it?" cried Sandy. "I ain't said it."

Bill's eyes met the other's angry glance with that cold irony that was so much a part of his nature.

"Guess your leddy friend wrote it," he said. And, as he heard the words, the last of Toby's ill-humor vanished. His stupid face wreathed itself into a broad grin as he watched the blank look of disappointment spread itself over Sandy's face.

"Listen here, all of you," the president went on, quite undisturbed by the feelings he had stirred in the widower. "This is wot the leddy says. She's writ it all so ther' can't be no mistake."

Then he began to read from his document with careful distinctness.

"'Don't take no notice of what I told Toby Jenks an' Sandy Joyce. I jest fooled 'em proper. Toby's a nice boy, but he ain't got brains enough to kep himself warm on a summer day, so I didn't waste nothin' on him, 'cep' time. As fer Sandy, he's sech a con-se-quenshul—' Have I got that word right, Sunny?" Bill inquired blandly of the secretary.

"You sure have," grinned Sunny, enjoying himself.

"'Sech a consequenshul fool of an idjut man,'" Bill read on, with a glance into Sandy's scarlet face, "'that I hadn't no time but to push him out of this dinin'-room.'"

"The miser'ble hash-slinger," exploded the exasperated Sandy, springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with impotent fury.

"Sit down," commanded the president. "This yere is a proper meetin' of the Zip Trust, an' don't call fer no langwidge ag'in a defenseless woman."

"Then she ain't no right to say things," cried the outraged man.

"She ain't. She's wrote 'em," retorted Bill, in a manner that left nothing more to be said. "'Consequenshul,' was the word," he went on, rolling it off his tongue as though he enjoyed its flavor, "an' I allow it must have took her thinking some to be so elegant. You'll set," he added, glancing up severely at the still standing man.

Sandy dropped back on his box, but he was anything but appeased. His dignity was hurt sorely. He, who understood women so well, to be treated like this. Then he tried to console himself with the opinion that after all Birdie was not exactly a woman, only a "pot-rustler." But Bill was pushing the business forward. He wanted to get the matter in hand settled.

"Here," he went on, "this is how she says of them kids: 'You can't jest lay down reg'lations fer feedin'. Jest feed 'em natural, an' if they git a pain dose 'em with physic. Ther's some things you must kep 'em from gittin' into their stummicks. Kindlin' wood is ridiculous fer them to chew, ther' ain't no goodness in it, an' it's li'ble to run slivvers into their vitals. Sulphur matches ain't good fer 'em to suck. I ain't got nothing to say 'bout the sulphur, but the phospherus is sure injurious, an', anyway, it's easy settin' 'emselves afire. Kids is ter'ble fond of sand, an' gravel, an' mud, inside an' out. Outside ain't no harm, 'cep' it keps you washin' 'em, but inside's likely to give 'em colic. Don't let 'em climb on tables an' things. Ther' never was a kid who could climb on to a table but what could fall off. Don't let 'em lick stove-black off a hot cookstove. This don't need explainin' to folk of ord'nary intelligence. Coal is for makin' a fire, an' ain't good eatin'. Boilin' water has its uses, but it ain't good play fer kids. Guns an' knives ain't needed fer kids playin' Injun. These things is jest general notions to kep in your head fer ord'nary guidance. Kids' clothes needs washin' every Monday—with soap. Mebbe you'll need to wash every day if kids is frolicsome. Bow-ties is for Sunday wear. Girl's hair needs braidin' every night, an' don't leave chewin' t'baccer around. Kids is sure to eat it. Best give 'em physic every Saturday night, an' bath 'em Sunday mornin'. Don't use no hand scrubber. If you can't git through the dirt by ord'nary washin', best leave it. Kids is tender-skinned anyway. After their bath set 'em out in the sun, an' give 'em an elegant Bible talk. Ther' ain't nothin' like a Bible talk fer kids. It sets 'em wise to religion early, an' gives 'em a good impression o' the folks raisin' 'em. Ef they ast too many questions you need to answer 'em with discretion—'"

"Wot's she mean by that?" asked Toby, all interest in the mass of detail.

"Mean? Why—" Bill paused considering.

Sunny looked up from his writing.

"Why, don't say fool things fer the sake of gassin'!" he explained readily. "Everything you tell 'em needs a moral."

"Moral?" murmured Toby vaguely.

"Yes, moral."

But Sandy saw a chance of restoring his fallen prestige, and promptly seized upon it.

"Moral," he said, beaming with self-satisfaction, "is handin' a lesson all wrop up in fancy words so's to set folks cussin' like mad they can't understand it, an' hatin' themselves when they're told its meanin'. Now, if I was goin' to show you what a blamed idjut you was without jest sayin' so—"

"Shut up!" cried Bill. And without waiting for a reply he read on, "'—with discretion. If you treat kids proper they mostly raise themselves, which is jest Natur'. Don't worry yourself, 'less they fall into a swill-barrel, or do some ridiculous stunt o' that natur'—an' don't worry them. Ther' ain't no sense to anybody goin' around with notions they ken flap their wings, an' cluck like a broody hen; an' scratchin' worms is positive ridiculous. Help 'em when they need help, otherwise let 'em fall around till they knock sense into theirselves. Jest let 'em be kids as long as Natur' fancies, so's when they git growed up, which they're goin' to do anyways, they'll likely make elegant men an' women. Ef you set 'em under glass cases they'll sure get fixed into things what glass cases is made to hold—that's images. I don't guess I kin tell you nothin' more 'bout kids, seein' I ain't a mother, but jest a pot-wolloper.'"

Bill folded the paper as he finished reading, and silently handed it across to the secretary. Somehow he seemed impressed with the information the paper contained. The whole meeting seemed impressed. Even Sandy had no comment to offer, while Toby resorted to biting his forefinger and gazing stupidly at the opposite wall. It was Sunny who finally broke the silence.

"Guess I'll jest writ' out the chief points fer Zip's guidance?" he asked.

Bill nodded.

"That's it, sure," he agreed. "Jest the chief points. Then you'll hand it to Zip to-morrer mornin', an', ef he needs it, you can explain wot he ain't wise to. I'd like to say right here that this hash-slinger has got savvee. Great big savvee, an' a heap of it. I ain't a hell of a lot on the kid racket, they mostly make me sick to death. In a manner o' speakin', I don't care a cuss for Zip nor his kids. Ef they drown theirselves in a swill-bar'l it's his funeral, an' their luck, an' it don't cut no ice with me. But, cuss me, ef I ken stand to see a low-down skunk like this yer James come it over a feller-citizen o' Suffering Creek, an' it's our duty to see Zip gits thro'. I'm sore on James. Sore as hell. I ain't no Bible-thumpin', mush-hearted, push-me-amongst-the-angels feller anyways. An' you boys has got to git right on to that, quick." He glared round at his friends defiantly, as though daring them to do otherwise. But as nobody gave a sign of doubt on the subject, he had no alternative but to continue. "I'm jest sore on James an'—" He hesitated for the fraction of a second, but went on almost immediately. "—ther' may come a time when the play gits busy. Get me? Wal," as Sandy and Sunny nodded assent, and Toby sat all eyes for the speaker, "this yere Trust is a goin' concern, an', I take it, we mean business. So, though we ain't runnin' a noospaper, maybe we'll need a fightin' editor after all. If we need a fightin' editor we'll sure need a fightin' staff. That's jest logic. I'll ast you right here, is you boys that fightin' staff? If so, guess I'm fightin' editor. How?"

His eyes were on Sunny Oak. And that individual's unwashed face broadened into a cheerful grin.

"Fightin' don't come under the headin' of work—proper," he said. "Guess I'm in."

Bill turned on Sandy.

"You ain't got the modest beauty o' the vi'let," he said, with saturnine levity. "How you feelin'?"

"Sure good," exclaimed the widower. "But I'd feel better lettin' air into the carkis of James."

"Good," muttered Bill. "An' you, Toby?" he went on, turning on the "remittance" man. "You're a heap fat, an' need somethin' to get it down. How you fancy things?"

"I'd as lief scrap 'side these scalliwags as ag'in 'em," he replied, indicating his companions with an amiable grin.

Bill nodded.

"This yere Trust is a proper an' well-found enterprise," he said gravely. "As fer Minky, I guess we can count him in most anything that ain't dishonest. So—wal, this is jest precautions. Ther's nuthin' doin' yet. But you see," he added, with a shadowy grin, "life's mostly chock-full of fancy things we don't figger on, an' anyway I can't set around easy when folks gets gay. I'll be back to hum day after to-morrer, or the next day, an', meanwhiles, you'll see things are right with Zip. An' don't kep far away from Minky's store when strangers is around. Minky's a good friend o' mine, an' a good friend to most o' you, so—well, guns is good med'cine ef folks git gay, an' are yearnin' to handle dust what ain't theirs."

"Them strangers?" suggested Sandy. "Is—?"

Bill shrugged.

"Strangers is strangers, an' gold-dust is gold-dust," he said shrewdly. "An' when the two git together ther's gener'ly a disease sets in that guns is the best med'cine for. That's 'bout all."



CHAPTER XVI

ZIP'S GRATITUDE

What a complicated machinery human nature is! It seems absurd that a strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are as surely found in the one as in the other. It would be so nice, so simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no less.

But such is not the case. In human psychology two and two can just as easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the possibilities of the weather. The constitution of the nervous system cannot be estimated until put to the test. And when the first test has revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be flatly contradicted by the second. The whole thing is the very mischief.

Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio's case there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of his psychology. In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well seem that there could be no variation to the sum. And the resulting prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one. He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human life. He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of expansion, of adaptability. That focus was almost entirely filled by his Jessie's image, with just a small place in it reserved for his twins. Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he looked out upon a dead white blank.

Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife. She was the mainspring of his every emotion. His love for her was his whole being. It was something so great and strong that it enveloped all his senses. She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life without her. She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a fact. She was his vanguard in life's battle, a support that shored up his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination, whatever that battle had to offer him.

But with Jessie's going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled. Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him. After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no change in him. His apparently colorless personality drifted on in precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner. What his moments of solitude were, only he knew. The agony of grief through which he passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss, these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which, however, defied the revelation of his secret.

After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in. That unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable. And where it had been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand. It grew, and, whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now became the central feature.

The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the figure of his wife. And with this new aspect came calmness. Nothing could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him. But whereas, judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been crushed under Fate's cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set in. He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his beacon-fire of duty shone.

Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted. The care of his children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected. He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see his way to earning more. The struggles of his unpractical mind were painful. It was a problem quite beyond him. He struggled nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children. Any other man would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care of the twins, but not so Scipio. He believed that their future well-being lay in his claim. If that could not be worked, then there was no other way.

He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited squabblings and laughter. So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched up to the hut with the result of the Trust's overnight meeting in his pocket.

The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and dirty face. He was feeling very self-righteous. It was pleasant to think he was doing a good work. So much so that the effort of doing it did not draw the usual protest from him.

He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth, under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio's condition would certainly be improved. But somehow his mental patronage received a quiet set-back. The hut looked so different. There was a wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering. Sunny remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his regime, and the contrast was quite startling. Scipio might be incapable of organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.

Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails. Yes, Zip must have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen it last.

However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.

"Kind o' busy, Zip?" he greeted the little man pleasantly.

Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.

"I'm mostly through fixin' these chores—for awhiles," he replied quietly. Then he nodded in the direction of the children's voices. "Guess I'm goin' to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean 'em. They need cleanin' a heap."

Sunny nodded gravely. He was thinking of those things he had so carefully written out.

"They sure do," he agreed. "Bath oncet a week. But not use a hand-scrubber, though," he added, under a wave of memory. "Kids is tender skinned," he explained.

"Pore little bits," the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more directly to his visitor. "But they do need washin'. It's kind o' natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that," he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, "I'll sure have to do a bit of washing." He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child's knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny's wondering eyes and smiled pathetically. "Ridic'lous small," he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. "Pore little gal." Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes. "Them frills an' bits git me some," he said in a puzzled way. "Y'see, I ain't never used an iron much, to speak of. It's kind of awkward using an iron."

Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron. Birdie had said nothing about it.

"Guess you hot it on the stove," he hazarded, after a moment's thought.

"Yes, I'd say you hot it," agreed Scipio. "It's after that."

"Yes." Sunny found himself thinking hard. "You got an iron?" he inquired presently.

"Sure—two." Scipio laid the knickers aside. "You hot one while you use the other."

Sunny nodded again.

"You see," the other went on, considering, "these pretties needs washin' first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, 'bout starch? 'Most everything needs starch. At least, ther' always seems to be starch around washing-time. Y'see, I ain't wise to starch."

"Blamed if I am either," agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind asserted itself. "Say, starch kind o' fixes things hard, don't it?" he inquired.

"It sure does."

Scipio was trying to follow out his companion's train of thought.

Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly.

"Don't use it," he cried, with finality. "You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway. Starch'll sure make 'em sore."

Scipio brightened.

"Why, yes," he agreed, with relief. "I didn't jest think about that. I'm a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out."

The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man's tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer's face.

"Don't mention it," he said embarrassedly. "It's easy, two thinkin' together. 'Sides, I've tho't a heap 'bout things since—since I started to fix your kiddies right. Y'see, it ain't easy."

"No, it just ain't. That is, y'see, I ain't grumbling," Scipio went on hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken. "If you're stuck on kiddies, like me, it don't worry you nuthin'. Kind of makes it pleasant thinkin' how you can fix things fer 'em, don't it? But it sure ain't easy doing things just right. That's how I mean. An' don't it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer 'em? But I don't guess that comes often, though," he added, with a sigh. "Y'see, I'm kind of awkward. I ain't smart, like you or Bill."

"Oh, Bill's real smart," Sunny began. Then he checked himself. He was to keep Bill's name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in time. So he veered round quickly. "But I ain't smart," he declared. "Anything I know I got from a leddy friend. Y'see, women-folk knows a heap 'bout kiddies, which, I 'lows, is kind o' natural."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper. Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.

"Guess you're a scholar, so I won't need to read what I writ down here. Mebbe you'll be able to read it yourself. I sure 'low the spellin' ain't jest right, but you'll likely understand it. Y'see, the writin's clear, which is the chief thing. I was allus smart with a pen. Now, this yer is jest how our—my—leddy frien' reckons kids needs fixin'. It ain't reasonable to guess everything's down ther'. They're jest sort o' principles which you need to foller. Maybe they'll help you some. Guess if you foller them reg'lations your kids'll sure grow proper."

He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly. His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole face. But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until he had read down the first page. Then he looked up with eyes that were almost moist with gratitude.

"Say," he began, "I can't never tell you how 'bliged I am, Sunny. These things have bothered me a whole heap. It's kind of you, Sunny, it is, sure. I'm that obliged I—"

"Say," broke in the loafer, "that sort o' talk sort o' worrits my brain. Cut it out." Then he grinned. "Y'see, I ain't used to thinkin' hard. It's mostly in the natur' o' work, an'—well, work an' me ain't been friends for years."

But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so laboriously set out. The loafer's picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie's principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis. So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them. Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest. He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire. But Scipio was in deadly earnest. Phraseology meant nothing to him. It was the guidance he was looking for and devouring hungrily. At last he looked up, his pale eyes glowing.

"That's fine," he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was impossible to doubt his appreciation. Then he glanced round the room. He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard door. Then he stood back and surveyed them. "You're a good friend, Sunny," he said earnestly. "Now I can't never make a mistake. There it is all wrote ther'. An' when I ain't sure 'bout nothing, why, I only jest got to read what you wrote. I don't guess the kiddies can reach them there. Y'see, kiddies is queer 'bout things. Likely they'd get busy tearing those sheets right up, an' then wher'd I be? I'll start right in now on those reg'lations, an' you'll see how proper the kiddies'll grow." He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor. "I'm 'bliged, Sunny; I sure can't never thank you enough."

Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man's hand. And after discussing a few details and offering a few suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even himself, he took his departure. And he left the hut with the final picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his strongly imaginative brain. He felt good. He felt so good that he was sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill's return.



CHAPTER XVII

JESSIE'S LETTER

Scipio's long day was almost over. The twins were in bed, and the little man was lounging for a few idle moments in the doorway of his hut. Just now an armistice in his conflict of thought was declared. For the moment the exigencies of his immediate duties left him floundering in the wilderness of his desolate heart at the mercy of the pain of memory. All day the claims of his children had upborne him. He had had little enough time to think of anything else, and thus, with his peculiar sense of duty militating in his favor, he had found strong support for the burden of his grief.

But now with thought and muscles relaxed, and the long night stretching out its black wings before him, the gray shadow had risen uppermost in his mind once more, and a weight of unutterable loneliness and depression bore down his spirit.

His faded eyes were staring out at the dazzling reflections of the setting sun upon the silvery crests of the distant mountain peaks. In every direction upon the horizon stretched the wonderful fire of sunset. Tongues of flame, steely, glowing, ruddy, shot up and athwart the picture in ever-changing hues before his unseeing eyes. It was all lost upon him. He stared mechanically, while his busy brain struggled amongst a tangle of memories and thought pictures. The shadows of his misfortune were hard besetting him.

Amidst his other troubles had come a fresh realization which filled him with something like panic. He had been forced to purchase stores for his household. To do so he had had to pay out the last of his fourth ten-dollar bill. His exchequer was thus reduced to ten dollars. Ten dollars stood between him and starvation for his children. Nor could he see the smallest prospect of obtaining more. His imagination was stirred. He saw in fancy the specter of starvation looming, hungrily stretching out its gaunt arms, clutching at his two helpless infants. He had no thought for himself. It did not occur to him that he, too, must starve. He only pictured the wasting of the children's round little bodies, he heard their weakly whimperings at the ravages of hunger's pangs. He saw the tottering gait as they moved about, unconscious of the trouble that was theirs, only knowing that they were hungry. Their requests for food rang in his ears, maddening him with the knowledge of his helplessness. He saw them growing weaker day by day. He saw their wondering, wistful, uncomprehending eyes, so bright and beautiful now, growing bigger and bigger as their soft cheeks fell away. He—

He moved nervously. He shifted his position, vainly trying to rid himself of the haunting vision. But panic was upon him. Starvation—that was it. Starvation! God! how terrible was the thought. Starvation! And yet, before—before Jessie had gone he had been no better off. He had had only fifty dollars. But somehow it was all different then. She was there, and he had had confidence. Now—now he had none. Then she was there to manage, and he was free to work upon his claim.

Ah, his claim. That was it. The claim lay idle now with all its hidden wealth. How he wanted that wealth which he so believed to be there. No, he could not work his claim. The children could not be left alone all day. That was out of the question. They must be cared for. How—how?

His brain grew hot, and he broke out into a sweat. His head drooped forward until his unshaven chin rested upon his sunken chest. His eyes were lusterless, his two rough hands clenched nervously. Just for one weak moment he longed for forgetfulness. He longed to shut out those hideous visions with which he was pursued. He longed for peace, for rest from the dull aching of his poor torn heart. His courage was at a low ebb. Something of the nature of the hour had got hold of him. It was sundown. There was the long black night between him and the morrow. He felt so helpless, so utterly incapable.

But his moment passed. He raised his head. He stood erect from the door casing. He planted his feet firmly, and his teeth gritted. The spirit of the man rose again. He must not give way. He would not. The children should not starve while there was food in the world. If he had no money, he had two strong hands and—

He started. A sudden noise behind him turned him facing about with bristling nerves. What was it? It sounded like the falling of a heavy weight. And yet it did not sound like anything big. The room was quite still, and looked, in the growing dusk, just the same as usual.

Suddenly the children leapt into his thought, and he started for the inner room. But he drew up short as he passed behind the table. A large stone was lying at his feet, and a folded paper was tied about it. He glanced round at the window and—understood.

He stooped and picked the missile up. Then he moved to the window and looked out. There was no one about. The evening shadows were rapidly deepening, but he was sure there was no one about. He turned back to the door where there was still sufficient light for his purposes. He sat down upon the sill with the stone in his hand. He was staring at the folded paper.

Yes, he understood. And instinctively he knew that the paper was to bring him fresh disaster. He knew it was a letter. And he knew whence it came.

At last he looked up. The mystery of the letter remained. It was there in his hand, waiting the severing of the string that held it, but somehow as yet he lacked the courage to read it. And so some moments passed. But at last he sighed and looked at it again. Then he reached round to his hip for his sheath-knife. The stone dropped to the ground, and with it the outer covering of the letter. With trembling fingers he unfolded the notepaper.

Yes, it was as he expected, as he knew, a letter from Jessie. And as he read it his heart cried out, and the warm blood in his veins seemed to turn to water. He longed for the woman whose hand had penned those words as he had never longed for anything in his life. All the old wound was ruthlessly torn open, and it was as though a hot, searing iron had been thrust into its midst. He cared nothing for what she had done or was. He wanted her.

It was a letter full of pathetic pleading for the possession of Vada. It was not a demand. It was an appeal. An appeal to all that was his better nature. His honesty, his manliness, his simple unselfishness. It was a letter thrilling with the outpourings of a mother's heart craving for possession of the small warm life that she had been at such pains to bestow. It was the mother talking to him as he had never heard the wife and woman talk. There was a passion, a mother love in the hastily scrawled words that drove straight to the man's simple heart. One little paragraph alone set his whole body quivering with responsive emotion, and started the weak tears to his troubled eyes.

"Let me have her, Zip. Let me have her. Maybe I've lost my right, but I'm her mother. I brought her into the world, Zip. And what that means you can never understand. She's my flesh and blood. She's part of me. I gave her the life she's got. I'm her mother, Zip, and I'll go mad without her."

He read and re-read the letter. He would have read it a third time, but the tears blinded his eyes and he crushed it into his pocket. His heart yearned for her. It cried out to him in a great pity. It tore him so that he was drawn to words spoken aloud to express his feelings.

"Poor gal," he murmured. "Poor gal. Oh, my Jessie, what you done—what you done?"

He dashed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the mist of tears that obscured his vision and stood up. He was face to face with a situation that might well have confounded him. But here, where only his heart and not his head was appealed to, there was no confusion.

The woman had said he could not understand. She had referred to her motherhood. But Scipio was a man who could understand just that. He could understand with his heart, where his head might have failed him. He read into the distracted woman's letter a meaning that perhaps no other man could have read into it. He read a human soul's agony at the severing of itself from all that belonged to its spiritual side. He read more than the loss of the woman's offspring. He read the despairing thought, perhaps unconscious, of a woman upon whom repentance has begun its work. And his simple heart went out to her, yearning, loving. He knew that her appeal was granted even before he acknowledged it to himself.

And strangely enough the coming of that letter—he did not pause to think how it had come—produced a miraculous change in him. His spirit rose thrilling with hope, and filled with a courage which, but a few moments before, seemed to have gone from him forever. He did not understand, he did not pause to think. How could he? To him she was still his Jessie, the love and hope of his life. It was her hand that had penned that letter. It was her woman's heart appealing to his mercy.

"God in heaven," he cried, appealing to the blue vault above him in which the stars were beginning to appear. "I can't refuse her. I just can't. She wants her so—my poor, poor Jessie."

* * * * *

It was late in the evening when Scipio returned from the camp driving Minky's buckskin mule and ancient buckboard. His mind was made up. He would start out directly after breakfast on the morrow. He had resorted to a pitiful little subterfuge in borrowing Minky's buckboard. He had told the storekeeper that he had heard of a prospect some distance out, and he wanted to inspect it. He said he intended to take Vada with him, but wished to leave Jamie behind. Minky, as a member of the Trust, had promptly lent him the conveyance, and volunteered to have Jamie looked after down at the store by Birdie until he returned. So everything was made easy for him, and he came back to his home beyond the dumps with the first feeling of contentment he had experienced since his wife had deserted him.

Having made the old mule snug for the night on the leeward side of the house, he prepared to go to bed. There was just one remaining duty to perform, however, before he was free to do so. He must set things ready for breakfast on the morrow. To this end he lit the lamp.

In five minutes his preparations were made, and, after one final look round, he passed over to the door to secure it. He stood for a moment drinking in the cool night air. Yes, he felt happier than he had done for days. Nor could he have said why. It was surely something to do with Jessie's letter, and yet the letter seemed to offer little enough for hope.

He was going to part with Vada, a thought which filled him with dismay, and yet there was hope in his heart. But then where the head might easily enough fail his heart had accepted responsibility. There was a note in the woman's appeal which struck a responsive chord in his own credulous heart, and somehow he felt that his parting with Vada was not to be for long. He felt that Jessie would eventually come back to him. He felt, though he did not put the thought into words, that no woman could feel as she did about her children, and be utterly dead to all the old affection that had brought them into the world.

He turned away at last. The air was good to breathe to-night, the world was good after all. Yes, it was better than he had thought it. There was much to be done to-morrow, so he would "turn in."

It was at that moment that something white lying at his feet caught his eye. Instantly he remembered it, and, stooping, picked it up. How strange it was the difference of his feelings as he lifted the outer wrapping of Jessie's letter now. There was something almost reverent in the way he handled the paper.

He closed the door and secured it, and went across to the lamp, where he stood looking down at the stained and dirty covering. He turned it over, his thoughts abstracted and busy with the woman who had folded it ready for its journey to him. Yes, she had folded it, she had sent it, she—

Suddenly his abstraction passed, and he bent over the disfiguring finger-marks. There was writing upon the paper, and the writing was not in Jessie's hand. He raised it closer to his eyes and began to read. And, with each word he made out, his faculties became more and more angrily concentrated.

"You'll hand the kid over at once. I'll be on the Spawn City trail ten miles out. If you ain't there with the kid noon to-morrow there's going to be bad trouble.

James."

"James! James!" Scipio almost gasped the name. His pale eyes were hot and furious, and the blood surged to his brain.

He had forgotten James until now. He had forgotten the traitor responsible for his undoing. So much was Jessie in his life that James had counted for little when he thought of her. But now the scoundrel swept all other thoughts pell-mell out of his head. He was suddenly ablaze with a rage such as he had never before experienced. All that was human in him was in a state of fierce resentment. He hated James, and desired with all his small might to do him a bodily hurt. Yes, he could even delight in killing him. He would show him no mercy. He would revel in witnessing his death agonies. This man had not only wronged him. He had killed also the spiritual purity of the mother of his children. Oh, how he hated him. And now—now he had dared to threaten. He, stained to his very heart's core with villainy, had dared to interfere in a matter which concerned a mother's pure love for her children. The thought maddened him, and he crushed the paper in his hand and ground it under his heel.

He would not do it. He could not. He had forgotten the association to which he was sending the innocent Vada. No, no. Innocent little Vada. Jessie must do without her.

He flung himself into a chair and gave himself up to passionate thought. For two hours he sat there raging, half mad with his hideous feelings against James. But as the long hours slipped away he slowly calmed. His hatred remained for the man, but he kept it out of his silent struggle with himself. In spite of his first heated decision he was torn by a guiding instinct that left him faltering. He realized that his hatred of the man, and nothing else, was really responsible for his negative attitude. And this was surely wrong. What he must really consider was the welfare of Vada, and—Jessie. The whole thing was so difficult, so utterly beyond him. He was drawn this way and that, struggling with a brain that he knew to be incompetent. But in the end it was again his heart that was victorious. Again his heart would take no denial.

Confused, weary, utterly at a loss to finally decide, he drew out Jessie's letter again. He read it. And like a cloud his confusion dispersed and his mind became clear. His hatred of James was thrust once more into the background. Jessie's salvation depended on Vada's going. Vada must go.

He sighed as he rose from his chair and blew out the lamp.

"Maybe I'm wrong," he murmured, passing into the bedroom. "Maybe. Well, I guess God'll have to judge me, and—He knows."



CHAPTER XVIII

ON THE ROAD

Wild Bill had many things to think of on his way back to Suffering Creek. He was a tremendously alert-minded man at all times, so alert-minded that at no time was he given to vain imaginings, and to be alone for long together chafed and irritated him to a degree. His life was something more than practicality; it was vigor in an extreme sense. He must be doing; he must be going ahead. And it mattered very little to him whether he was using vigor of mind or body. Just now he was using the former to a purpose. Possibilities and scheming flashed through his head in such swift succession as to be enough to dazzle a man of lesser mental caliber.

The expressed object of his visit to Spawn City was only one of several purposes he had in hand. And though he turned up at the principal hotel at the psychological moment when he could drop into the big game of poker he had promised himself, and though at that game he helped himself, with all the calm amiability in the world, to several thousand dollars of the "rich guys'" money, the rest of his visit to the silver city was spent in moving about amongst the lower haunts where congregated the human jackals which hunt on the outskirts of such places.

And in these places he met many friends and acquaintances with whom he fraternized for the time being. And his sojourn cost him a good many dollars, dollars which he shed unstintingly, even without counting. Nor was he the man to part with his money in this casual manner without obtaining adequate return, and yet all he had to show as a result of his expedition was a word of information here and there, a suggestion or two which would scarcely have revealed to the outsider the interest which they held for him. Yet he seemed satisfied. He seemed very well satisfied indeed, and his reckless spirit warmed as he progressed in his peregrinations.

Then, too, he "dined" the sheriff of the county at the only restaurant worth while. He spent more than two hours in this man's company, and his wine bill was in due proportion to the hardy official's almost unlimited capacity for liquid refreshment. Yet even to the most interested his purpose would have needed much explanation. He asked so few questions. He seemed to lead the conversation in no particular direction. He simply allowed talk to drift whither it would. And somehow it always seemed to drift whither he most desired it.

Yes, his movements were quite curious during his visit, and yet they were commonplace enough to suggest nothing of the depth of subtlety which really actuated them. There was even an absurd moment which found him in a candy-store purchasing several pounds of the most sickly candy he could buy in so rough a place as the new silver town.

However, the time came for him at last to get out on the road again for home. And, having prepared his team for the journey, he hitched them up to his spring-cart himself, paid his bill, and, with a flourish of his whip, and a swagger which only a team of six such magnificent horses as he possessed could give him, left the hotel at a gallop, the steely muscles of his arms controlling his fiery children as easily as the harsh voice of a northern half-breed controls a racing dog-train.

And on the journey home his thoughts were never idle for a moment. So busy were they that the delicious calm of the night, the wonders of the following dawn, the glory of a magnificent sunrise over a green world of mountain, valley and plain, were quite lost to his unpoetic soul. The only things which seemed able to distract his concentrated thoughts were the fiercely buzzing mosquitoes, and these he cursed with whole-hearted enthusiasm which embraced a perfect vocabulary of lurid blasphemy.

Twice on the journey he halted and unhitched his horses for feed and drink and a roll. But the delays were short, and his vigorous methods gave them but short respite. He cared for his equine friends with all his might, and he drove them in a similar manner. This was the man. A life on a bed of roses would not have been too good for his horses, but if he so needed it they would have to repay him by driving over a red-hot trail.

Now the home stretch lay before him, some twenty miles through a wonderful broken country, all spruce and pine forests, crag and valley, threaded by a white hard trail which wound its way amidst Nature's chaos in a manner similar to that in which a mountain stream cuts its course, percolating along the path of the least resistance.

Through this splendid country the untiring team traveled, hauling their feather-weight burden as though there was nothing more joyous in life. In spite of the length of the journey the gambler had to keep a tight pressure on the reins, or the willing beasts would, at any moment, have broken into a headlong gallop. Their barn lay ahead of them, and their master sat behind them. What more could they want?

Up a sharp incline, and the race down the corresponding decline. The wide stretch of valley bottom, and again a steep ascent. There was no slackening of gait, scarcely a hard breath. Only the gush of eager nostrils in the bright morning air of the mountains. Now along a forest-bounded stretch of level trail, winding, and full of protruding tree-stumps and roots. There was no stumbling. The surefooted thoroughbreds cleared each obstruction with mechanical precision, and only the spring-cart bore the burden of impact.

On, up out of the darkened valley to a higher level above, where the high hills sloped away upwards, admitting the dazzling daylight so that the whole scene was lit to a perfect radiance, and the nip of mountain air filled the lungs with an invigorating tonic.

At last the traveler dropped down into the wide valley, in the midst of which he first came into touch with the higher reaches of Suffering Creek. Here it flowed a sluggish, turgid stream, so sullen, so heavy. It was narrow, and at points curiously black in tone. There was none of the freshness, the rushing, tumultuous flow of a mountain torrent about it here. Its banks were marshy with a wide spread of oozy soil, and miry reeds grew in abundance. The trail cut well away from the bed of the creek, mounting the higher land where the soil, in curious contrast, was sandy, and the surface deep in a silvery dust. To an observer the curiosity of the contrast must have been striking, but Wild Bill was not in an observant mood. He was busy with his horses—and his thoughts.

He was traveling now in a cloud of dust. And it was this, no doubt, which accounted for the fact that he did not see a buckboard drawn by an aged mule until he heard a shout, and his horses swung off the trail of their own accord. Quick as lightning he drew them up with a violent curse.

"What in hell—!" he roared. But he broke off suddenly as the dust began to clear, and he saw the yellow-headed figure of Scipio seated in the buckboard, with Vada beside him, just abreast of him.

"Mackinaw!" he cried. "What you doin' out here?"

So startled was the gambler at the unexpected vision that he made no attempt to even guess at Scipio's purpose. He put his question without another thought behind it.

Scipio, whose mule had jumped at the opportunity of discontinuing its laborious effort, and was already reaching out at the grass lining the trail, passed a hand across his brow before answering. It was as though he were trying to fix in his mind the reason of his own presence there.

"Why," he said hesitatingly, "why, I'm out after a—a prospect I heard of. Want to get a peek at it."

The latter was said with more assurance, and he smiled vaguely into his friend's face.

But Bill had gathered his scattered wits, and had had time to think. He nodded at little Vada, who was interestedly staring at the satin coats of his horses.

"An' you takin' her out to help you locate it?" he inquired, with a raising of his shaggy brows.

"Not just that," Scipio responded uncomfortably. He found it curiously difficult to lie with Bill's steady eyes fixed on him. "Y'see—Say, am I near ten miles out from the camp?"

"Not by three miles." Bill was watching him intently. He saw the pale eyes turn away and glance half fearfully along the trail. Then they suddenly came back, and Scipio gazed at the child beside him. He sighed and lifted his reins.

"Guess I'll get on then," he said in the dogged tone of a man who has made up his mind to an unpleasant task.

But Bill had no intention of letting him go yet. He sat back in his seat, his hand holding his reins loosely in his lap.

"That wher' your prospect is?" he inquired casually.

Scipio nodded. He could not bring himself to frame any further aggravation of the lie.

"Wher' did you hear of the prospect?" Bill demanded shrewdly.

"I—"

But little Vada broke in. Her interest had been diverted by the word prospect.

"Wot's 'prospect'?" she demanded.

Bill laughed without any change of expression.

"Prospect is wher' you expect to find gold," he explained carefully.

The child's eyes widened, and she was about to speak. Then she hesitated, but finally she proceeded.

"That ain't wot we're goin' for," she said simply. "Poppa's goin' to take me wher' momma is. I'm goin' to momma, an' she's ever so far away. Pop told me. Jamie's goin' to stay with him, an' I'm goin' to stay with momma, an'—an'—I want Jamie to come too." Tears suddenly crowded her eyes, and slowly rolled down her sunburned cheeks.

Just for a moment neither man spoke. Bill's fierce eyes were curiously alight, and they were sternly fixed on the averted face of the father. At last Scipio turned towards him; and with his first words he showed his relief that further lying was out of the question.

"I forgot—somehow—she knew. Y'see—"

But Bill, who had just bitten off a fresh chew of tobacco, gave him no chance to continue.

"Say," he interrupted him, "ther's lies I hate, an' ther's lies that don't make no odds. You've lied in a way I hate. You've lied 'cos you had to lie, knowin' you was doin' wrong. If you hadn't know'd you was doin' wrong you wouldn't have needed to lie—sure. Say, you're not only handin' over that kiddie to her mother, you're handin' her over to that feller. Now, get to it an' tell me things. An'—you needn't to lie any."

Scipio hung his head. These words coming from Wild Bill suddenly put an entirely different aspect upon his action. He saw something of the horror he was committing as Bill saw it. He was seeing through another man's eyes now, where before he had only seen through his own simple heart, torn by the emotions his Jessie's letter had inspired.

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out his wife's letter. He looked at it, holding it a moment, his whole heart in his eyes. Then he reached out and passed it to the gambler.

"She's got to have her," he said, with a touch of his native obstinacy and conviction. "She's her mother. I haven't a right to keep her. I—"

But Bill silenced him without ceremony.

"Don't yap," he cried. "How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin' hot air?"

Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky's mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the thought hurt him and made him shrink from it. He felt that her poor heart must have been breaking when she had written. Perhaps James had been cruel to her. Yes, he was sure to have been cruel to her. Such a blackguard as he was sure to be cruel to women-folk. No doubt she was longing to escape from him. She was sure to be. She would never have willingly gone away—

"Tosh!" cried Bill. And Scipio found the letter thrust out for him to take back.

"Eh?"

"I said 'tosh!'" replied the gambler. "How'd you get that letter?"

"It was flung in through the window. It was tied to a stone."

"Yes?"

"There was a wrappin' to it." Then Scipio's eyes began to sparkle at the recollection. "It was wrote on by the feller James," he went on in a low voice.

Then suddenly he turned, and his whole manner partook of an impotent heat.

"He'd wrote I was to hand her, Vada, over to him ten miles out on this trail—or there'd be trouble."

Wild Bill stirred and shifted his seat with a fierce dash of irritation. His face was stern and his black eyes blazing. He spat out his chew of tobacco.

"An' you was scared to death, like some silly skippin' sheep. You hadn't bowel enough to tell him to go to hell. You felt like handin' him any other old thing you'd got—'Here, go on, help yourself.'" He flung out his arms to illustrate his meaning. "'You got my wife; here's my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my claim. Guess my shack'll make you an elegant summer palace.' Gee!"

The gambler's scorn was withering, and with each burst of it he flourished his arms as though handing out possessions to an imaginary James. And every word he spoke smote Scipio, goading him and lashing up the hatred which burnt deep down in his heart for the man who had ruined his life.

But the little man's thought of Jessie was not so easily set aside, and he jumped to defend himself.

"You don't understand—" he began. But the other cut him short with a storm of scathing anger.

"No, I sure don't understand," he cried, "I don't. I sure don't. Guess I'm on'y jest a man. I ain't no sort o' bum angel, nor sanctimonious sky-bustin' hymn-smiter. I'm on'y a man. An' I kind o' thank them as is responsible that I ain't nuthin' else. Say"—his piercing eyes seemed to bore their way right down to the little man's heart like red-hot needles—"I ain't got a word to say to you but you orter be herdin' wi' a crowd o' mangy gophers. Tchah! A crowd o' maggots 'ud cut you off'n their visitin' list in a diseased carkis. Here's a feller robs you in the meanest way a man ken be robbed, an' you're yearnin' to hand him more—a low-down cur of a stage-robber, a cattle-thief, the lowest down bum ever created—an' you'd hand over this pore innercent little kiddie to him. Was there ever sech a white-livered sucker? Say, you're responsible fer that pore little gal's life, you're responsible fer her innercent soul, an' you'd hand her over to James, like the worstest cur in creation. Say, I ain't got words to tell you what you are. You're a white-livered bum that even hell won't give room to. You're—"

"Here, hold on," cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly blazing. "You're wrong, all wrong. I ain't doing it because I'm scared of James. I don't care nothing for his threats. I'm scared of no man—not even you. See? My Jessie's callin' for her gal—my Jessie! Do you know what that means to me? No, of course you don't. You don't know my Jessie. You ain't never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain't never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can't see as I can see. This little gal," he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada's small shoulders, "will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has hit the wrong trail, an'—an' I'd sacrifice everything in the world to save her. I'd—I'd sell my own soul. I'd give it to—save her."

Scipio looked fearlessly into the gambler's eyes. His pale cheeks were lit by a hectic flush of intense feeling. There was a light in his eyes of such honesty and devotion that the other lowered his. He could not look upon it unmoved.

Bill sat back, for once in his life disconcerted. All his righteous indignation was gone out of him. He was confronted with a spectacle such as, in his checkered career, he had never before been brought into contact with. It was the meeting of two strangely dissimilar, yet perfectly human, forces. Each was fighting for what he knew to be right. Each was speaking from the bottom of a heart inspired by his sense of human right and loyalty. While the gambler, without subtlety of emotion, saw only with a sense of human justice, with a hatred of the man who had so wronged this one, with a desire to thwart him at every turn, the other possessed a breadth of feeling sufficient to put out of his thoughts all recollection of his personal wrong, if only he could help the woman he loved.

It was a meeting of forces widely different, yet each in its way thrilling with a wonderful honesty of purpose. And, curiously enough, the purpose of Scipio, who lacked so much of the other's intellect and force, became, in a measure, the dominating factor. It took hold of the gambler, and stirred him as he had never been stirred before.

Suddenly Wild Bill leaned forward. Once more those swift, relentless eyes focused and compelled the others.

"Zip," he said in a tone that was strangely thrilling, "maybe I didn't get all you felt—all you got in that tow-head of yours. That bein' so, guess I owe you amends. But I'm goin' to ast you to sure fergit that gal's letter—fer awhiles. I'm goin' to ast you to turn that bussock-headed mule you're drivin' right around, and hit back for the Creek. You do this, Zip, an' I'll tell you what I'm goin' to do. I ain't no sentimental slob. I ain't got the makin's in me of even a store-mussed angel. See? But if you do this I swar to you right here I'm goin' to see your Jessie right. I swar to you I'll rid her of this 'Lord' James, an' it'll jest be up to you to do the rest. Git me?"

Scipio took a breath that was something like a gasp.

"You'll—you'll help me get her back?" he breathed, with a glow of hope which almost shocked his companion.

"I'm not promisin' that," said Bill quickly. "That's sure up to you. But I give it you right here, I'll—shift this doggone skunk out of your way."

Scipio made no verbal reply. Just for a moment he looked into the gimlet eyes of the other. He saw the iron purpose there. He saw the stern, unyielding compression of the lean, muscular jaws. There was something tremendous in the suggestion of power lying behind this ruffian's exterior. He turned away and gathered up the old mule's reins.

"You've allus been friendly to me, Bill, so—"

He pulled off the trail and turned the mule's head in the direction of home. And the rest of the gambler's journey was done in the wake of Minky's buckboard.



CHAPTER XIX

A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION

Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek. So much had happened to him that day, so many and various had been the emotions through which he had passed, that there was only one thing left him to do. He must work. He dared not sit down and think. Hard physical labor was what he required. And the rubbing out of the children's small clothes, and his own somewhat tattered garments, became a sort of soothing drug which quieted his troubled mind, and lulled his nerves into a temporary quiescence. The children were with him, playing unconcernedly upon the muddy banks of the creek, with all the usual childish zest for anything so deliciously enticing and soft as liquid river mud.

Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of childhood's days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish way, he was satisfied.

As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a quick, sidelong glance in the children's direction kept him informed of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds.

Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife's weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard, world-worn heart.

And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money, even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others, and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood it.

Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.

Scipio heard him coming, and glanced round quickly. When he beheld his visitor he nodded a greeting and continued his work. In his heart was a curious feeling towards the gambler. He could not have described it. It was too complicated. He liked Wild Bill. He felt that for some indefinite reason he was his friend. Yet he resented him, too. He did not know he resented him. Only he felt that this man dominated him, and he was forced to obey him against his will. At sight of him his mind went back to the events of that morning. He thought of Bill's promise, and a curious excitement stirred within him. He wondered now what this visit portended.

For once the gambler did not display his usual readiness. He did not speak for some moments, but took up a position whence he could see the children at their play, and best watch the little washerman, on whom he intended to thrust a proposition that had been revolving in his mind some time. He chewed his tobacco steadily, while his expression went through many changes. At last he drew his shaggy brows together and eyed his victim with shrewd suspicion.

"Say, you're kind o' smart, ain't you?" he demanded harshly.

The other looked up with a start, and his mildly inquiring glance should have convinced the most skeptical to the contrary. But apparently it had no such effect on his visitor.

"I'd never ha' tho't it," Bill went on coldly. "To look at you one 'ud sure think you was that simple a babby could fool you. Howsum," he sighed, "I don't guess you ken never rightly tell."

A flush began to warm Scipio's cheeks. He couldn't understand. He wondered hard, vainly endeavoring to grasp wherein he had offended.

"I—I don't get you," he said, in a bewildered fashion, dropping the garment he was washing back into the soapsuds.

Bill's expression underwent another change as he caught at the words.

"You don't get me?" he said ironically. "You don't get me?" Then he shrugged as though he was not angry, but merely deplored the other's unsuspected cunning. "You can't strike it rich an' guess you're goin' to blind folks. I'd say it needs every sort of a man to do that around these parts."

Scipio gasped. He had no other feeling than blank astonishment.

"I ain't struck it rich," he protested.

And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.

"Say, you're a heap shrewd," cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided. "I'd say you're jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can't blame you any fer holdin' your face shut. Ther's a mint o' dollars ken drop out of a feller's mouth through an unnatteral openin'. Ef you'd got busy gassin', it's a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out 'ud be chasin' you clear to death. Say, it's right, though? There's chunks of it stickin' right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An' the quartz bank cuttin' down wider an' wider?"

But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of it was sad conviction.

"Not yet," he said. "Not yet. I ain't seen it, anyway. I sure think there's gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is," he added, with unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope stirring. Bill's accusation was aiding the effect. "But it ain't on the surface. It sure ain't."

He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered what he had missed for so long? He hadn't been near his claim for some days. Had someone—?

"Who says about the gold?" he demanded, with sudden inspiration.

"The folks."

The gambler passed the point without committing himself.

Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have transpired, and yet—

"You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure." The smile that accompanied his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far horizon of more interest just then.

"You're a wide one all right," he said thoughtfully. "There's no gettin' upsides with you. Give me them quiet, simple sort o' fellers every time. They got the gas machine beat so far you couldn't locate him with a forty-foot microscope. Gee!" He chuckled, and turned again to contemplate his companion, much as he would a newly discovered wonder of the world.

But poor Scipio was really becoming distressed. He hoped, merely because the other forced him to hope, by his own evident sincerity. But the charge of shrewdness, of conspiring to keep a secret he had never possessed, worried him.

"I take my oath I don't know a thing, Bill," he declared earnestly. "I sure don't. You've got to believe me, because I can't say more. I seen my claim days back, an' I hadn't a color. I ain't seen it since. That's fact."

It was strange to see how readily the disbelief died out of the other's face. It was almost magical. It was as though his previous expression had been nothing but acting and his fresh attitude the result of studied preparation.

"Well, Zip," he said seriously, almost dejectedly, "if you put it that way, I sure got to b'lieve you. But it's queer. It sure is. There's folks ready to swear ther's rich gold on your claim, an' I'll tell you right here I come along to git in on it. Y'see, I'm a bizness man, an' I don't figger to git a crop o' weeds growin' around my feet. I sez to myself, I sez, directly I heerd tell, 'Here's Zip with an elegant patch o' pay dirt, an' here am I with a wad of bills handy, which I'd sure like to turn over some.' Then I sez—I want you to understand jest how I thought—I sez,'Mebbe I've kind o' bin useful to Zip. Helped him out some, when he was fixed awkward.' You see, it ain't my way to do things for nothing. An' I do allow I bin useful to you. Well, I thought o' these things, so I come along right smart to get in on the plum. Sez I, 'Zip, bein' under obligation to me some, mebbe he'll let me buy ha'f share in his claim,' me handin' him a thousand dollars. It 'ud be a spot cash deal, an' me puttin' in a feller to work—an' see things right fer me—why, I guess there'd be no chance o' you gettin' gay—an' fakin' the output. See? I don't guess you're on the crook, but in bizness a feller don't take chances. Y'see I'm pretty bright when it gits to bizness, an', anyway, I don't stand fer no play o' that kind. Get me?"

The gambler's manner was wholly severe as he explained his proposition, and impressed his views of business. Scipio listened without the slightest umbrage. He saw nothing wrong, nothing unfriendly in the precautions the other had intended to take. As a matter of fact, the one thing that concerned him was the disappointment he must cause him.

"There's nothing like straight talk, Bill," he said, cordially. "I allus like straight talk. You kind of know just where you are then. There's not a doubt you've been real good to me," he went on, with evident feeling, "and I'll never be able to forget it—never. I tell you right here, if there was anything in the world I could do in return, I'd do it."

He smiled quaintly and pushed his stubby fingers through his sparse hair in his most helpless manner.

"If there was gold on my claim, I'd let you in all you need, and I wouldn't want your dollars. Dollars? No, Bill, I don't want dollars for doing anything for you. I sure don't. I mean that. Maybe you'll understand, y'see I'm not a business man—never was."

The gambler averted his eyes. He could not look into the other's face so shining with honesty and gratitude.

"But there ain't no gold found on that claim yet," Scipio went on. "Leastways, not that I know of, so what's the use deceivin' you? An' dollars, why, there's no question of 'em between us. You can stand in ha'f my claim, Bill, an' welcome, but you ain't going to pay me dollars for gold that ain't been found. Yes, you're sure welcome to ha'f my claim, an' you ken set a man working for you. I'll not say but I'll be glad of the help. But don't make no mistake, gold ain't been found, as far as I know, an' there may be none there, so I'd be glad if you don't risk a lot of dollars in the work."

The gambler felt mean as he listened to the quiet words ringing with such simple honesty. Time and again his beady eyes lifted to the steady blue ones, only to drop quickly before their fearless sincerity. He stirred irritably, and a hot impatience with himself drove him so that the moment Scipio finished speaking he broke out at once.

"Here," he cried, without the least gentleness, "you're talkin' a heap o' foolishness. I'm a bizness man offerin' a bizness proposition. I don't want nuthin' given. I'm out to make a deal. You say there's no gold there. Wal, I say there sure is. That bein' so I'd be a low down skunk takin' ha'f your claim fer nix, jest because you guess you owe me things—which I 'low you sure do, speakin' plain. I got a thousand dollars right here,"—he pulled out a packet of bills from his hip pocket, and held them up for the other's inspection—"an' them dollars says ther's gold on your claim. An' I'm yearnin' to touch ha'f that gold. But I'm takin' no chances. I want it all wrote down reg'lar so folks can't say I sneaked around you, an' got it for nix. Gee, I'd look mighty small if you turned around on me afterwards. No, sir, you don't get me that way. I'm only soft around my teeth. If you're the man I take you for, if you're honest as you're guessin', if you feel you want to pay me fer anything I done for you, why, cut the gas an' take my dollars' an' I'll get the papers made out by a Spawn City lawyer. They're all that crooked they couldn't walk a chalk-line, but I guess they know how to bind a feller good an' tight, an' I'll see they bind you up so ther' won't be no room for fool tricks. That's bizness."

Scipio shook his head. And Bill flushed angrily.

"It ain't square," the little man protested. "Maybe you'll lose your money."

"That's up to me," the gambler began fiercely. Then he checked himself, and suddenly became quite grieved. "Wal, Zip, I wouldn't ha' b'lieved it. I sure wouldn't. But ther'—life's jest self. It's all self. You're like all the rest. I've been chasin' a patch o' good pay dirt ever since I bin around Sufferin' Creek, an' it's only now I've found one to suit me. I sure thought you'd let me in on it. I sure did. Howsum, you won't. You want it all yourself. Wall, go ahead. An' you needn't worry about what I told you this morning. My word goes every time. This ain't going to make no difference. I'm not goin' to squeal on that jest because you won't 'blige me."

He made as though to return his dollars to his pocket. He had turned away, but his shrewd eyes held his companion in their focus. He saw the flush of shame on Scipio's face. He saw him open his mouth to speak. Then he saw it shut as he left his tub and came towards him. Bill waited, his cunning telling him to keep up his pretense. Scipio did not pause till he laid a hand on his arm, and his mild eyes were looking up into his keen, hard face.

"Bill," he said, "you can have ha'f my claim and—and I'll take your dollars. I jest didn't guess I was bein' selfish about it—I didn't, truth. I was thinkin' o' you. I was thinkin' you might lose your bills. Y'see, I haven't had the best of luck—I—"

But the gambler's face was a study as he pushed his hand off and turned on him. There was a fine struggle going on in his manner between the harshness he wished to display and the glad triumph he really felt.

"Don't slob," he cried. "Here's the bills. Stuff 'em right down in your dip. Ha'f that claim is mine, an' I'll have the papers wrote reg'lar. I didn't think you was mean, an' I'm glad you ain't."

Scipio took the money reluctantly enough, and pushed it into his pocket with a sigh. But Bill had had enough of the matter. He turned to go, moving hastily. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. Thrusting his hand into a side pocket of his jacket he produced a paper parcel.

"Say, Zip, I come nigh forgettin'," he cried cheerfully. "The hash-slinger down at Minky's ast me to hand you this. It's for the kiddies. It's candy. I'd say she's sweet on your kiddies. She said I wasn't to let you know she'd sent 'em. So you ken jest kep your face closed. So long."

He hurried away like a man ashamed. Scipio had such a way of looking into his eyes. But once out of sight he slackened his pace. And presently a smile crept into his small eyes, that set them twinkling.

"Guess I'm every kind of a fule," he muttered. "A thousand dollars! Gee! An' ther' ain't gold within a mile of the doggone claim—'cep' when Zip's ther'," he added thoughtfully.



CHAPTER XX

HOW THE TRUST BOUGHT MEDICINE

Wild Bill ate his supper that evening because it was his custom to do so. He had no inclination for it, and it gave him no enjoyment. He treated the matter much as he would have treated the stoking of a stove on a winter's night. So long as he was filled up he cared little for the class of the fuel.

Birdie waited on him with an attention and care such as she never bestowed upon any other boarder at the store, and the look in her bright eyes as she forestalled his wishes, compared with the air with which she executed the harshly delivered orders of the rest of the men, was quite sufficient to enlighten the casual onlooker as to the state of her romantic heart. But her blandishments were quite lost upon our hero. He treated her with much the same sort of indifference he might have displayed towards one of the camp dogs.