To-night, particularly, nothing she could do or say seemed to give him the least satisfaction. He ignored her as he ignored all the rest of the boarders, and devoured his meal in absolute silence—in so far as any speech went—wrapt in an impenetrable moroseness which had a damping effect upon the entire company.

Truth to tell, he was obsessed with his thoughts and feelings against the man James. With every passing day his resentment against him piled up, till now he could think of nothing much else but a possible way to dislodge him from the pinnacle of his local notoriety, and so rid the district of the threat of his presence.

How much of this feeling was purely personal, inspired by the natural antagonism of a strong, even violent, nature against a man whose very existence was an everlasting challenge to him, and how far it was the result of an unadmitted sympathy for Scipio, it would have been impossible to tell in a man like Wild Bill. Reason was not in such things with him. He never sought reasons where his feelings were concerned. James must go. And so his whole mind and force was given up to a search for adequate means to accomplish his purpose.

The problem was not easy. And when things were not easy to him, Bill's temper invariably suffered. Besides, scheming was never pleasant to him. He was so essentially a man of action. An open battle appealed to him as nothing else in the world appealed to him. Force of arms—that was his conception of the settlement of human differences.

He admitted to himself that the events of the day had stirred his "bile." He felt that he must hit out to ease himself, and the one direction to hit out in which would have given him any satisfaction was not yet available. So he brooded on, a smoldering volcano which his acquaintances avoided with a care inspired by past experience.

But his mood was bound to find an outlet somehow. It is always so. If the opportunity does not come naturally, ill-temper will make one. It was this way with the gambler. A devilish impulse caught him just as supper was nearing its finish.

The thought occurred with the entrance of Sandy Joyce, who took the empty place at the table on Bill's right. Birdie was hovering near, and, as Sandy took his seat, she suddenly dumped a fresh cup of coffee before the gambler. She giggled coyly as the cup clattered on the bare table.

"I ain't set sugar in it, Bill," she said sweetly, and reached towards the sugar-bowl.

But the man pushed her arm roughly aside.

"Oh, skip!" he cried. "You make me sick."

His bearishness in no way disconcerted the girl. She persisted, and dropped two spoonfuls of granulated sugar into his cup.

"Some folks need sugar," she remarked, with another giggle, as she moved away. And somehow it was Bill who had suffered loss of dignity.

This only helped to aggravate his mood, and he turned his small eyes sharply on Sandy.

"I'm needin' someone to work a claim fer me," he said in a voice intended to reach every ear, and as he spoke a curious look came into his eyes. It was half a grin, half a challenge, and wholly meant mischief.

The effect was exactly as he had calculated. The entire attention of the room was on him at once, and he warmed as he waited for Sandy's reply.

"You—you got a claim?" the widower inquired blankly.

Bill licked his lips after devouring a mouthful of pie.

"An' why in hell not?" he retorted.

Before Sandy could gather an adequate reply, the matter was taken up by a young miner further down the table.

"Wher' you got it, Bill?" he inquired, with genuine interest.

The gambler swallowed another mouthful of pie, and rammed the rim of crust into his cheek with his thumb, and leisurely devoured it before replying.

"I don't see that my claim has anything to do wi' the company present," he said at last, with a dangerous look in his half-grinning eyes. "But, seein' Mr. Joe Brand is kind o' curious, guess he may as well know first as last."

"I didn't mean no offense, Bill," apologized the miner, flushing and speaking hurriedly.

Bill promptly became sarcastic.

"Course you didn't. Folks buttin' in never don't mean no offense. Howsum, guess my claim's on the banks o' Sufferin' Creek. Maybe you feel better now?" He glared down the table, but finally turned again to Sandy. "You ain't pertickler busy 'bout now, so—ther's thirty dollars a week says you ken hev the job. An' I'll give you a percentage o' the gold you wash up," he added dryly. "You on?"

Sandy nodded. He didn't quite understand his friend's game. This was the first he had heard of Bill having acquired a claim—and on the river, too. There was only one other man on the river, and—well, Zip's claim was the joke of the camp.

He had just formulated a question in his mind, when the words were taken out of his mouth by a heavy-faced prospector further down the table.

"Wher' 'bouts on the Creek, Bill?" he inquired.

The gambler eyed him intently.

"Quite a piece up," he said shortly.

A half-smile spread over the prospector's face.

"Not nigh—Zip's?" he suggested.

The half-grin in Bill's eyes was becoming more savage.

"Yep—an' I bought it."

His information increased the interest with a bound. Every man there knew, or believed, that Zip's claim was the only one on the Creek.

"I didn't know there was any other but Zip's," said Joe Brand, his interest outrunning his discretion.

"Ah, you buttin' in again," sneered Bill. "Guess you know right, too. Ther' ain't."

It was curious to glance down at the double row of faces lining the table and note the perplexity which suddenly gathered on them. Bill saw it and enjoyed it. It suited his mood. Finally the heavy-faced prospector blurted out the question that was in everybody's mind, yet which the others dared not ask.

"You—you bought Zip's claim?" he asked incredulously.

"Ha'f of it. Me an' Zip's partners. You got anything to say?"

Bill's words rapped out with biting force, and Sandy, knowing the man, waited, solemn-eyed. Just for one moment astonishment held his audience breathless. Then some one sniggered, and it became the cue for an instantaneous and general guffaw of derision. Every face was wreathed in a broad grin. The humor of this thing was too much. Zip's claim! Bill, the keen, unscrupulous gambler, had fallen for Zip's mud-hole on the banks of Suffering Creek!

Bill waited. The laugh was what he needed, so he waited till it died out. As it did so he kicked back his chair and stood up, his tall figure and hard face a picture of cold challenge.

"You're that merry, folks," he said, his teeth clipping each word, "that maybe some o' you got something to say. I'd like to hear it. No?" as he waited. But no one seemed anxious to comment. "Joe Brand kind o' seems fond o' buttin' in—mebbe he'll oblige."

But the young miner was not to be drawn. Bill shrugged his lean shoulders, his fierce eyes alight with a dangerous fire.

"Wal," he went on, "I don't guess I ken make folks talk if they don't notion it. But I want to say right here I bought ha'f o' Zip's claim fer good dollars, an' I'm goin' to pay Sandy Joyce a tiptop wage fer workin' my share. An'"—he paused and glanced swiftly and defiantly at the faces which were no longer smiling—"an' I want to say I bought the richest lay-out in this bum camp. Any feller who ain't o' the same opinion ken git right up on to his hind legs an' call me a 'liar'—an' I'm jest yearnin' fer some feller to git around an' call me that. Jest turn it over in your fool heads. You don't need to hurry any. Ther's days an' days to come, an' at any time I'll be glad fer all o' you to come along an' tell me I'm—a liar."

He paused, his fierce eyes gleaming. He felt good. His outburst had relieved his pent feelings. It was a safety-valve which had worked satisfactorily at the right moment. But as he received no answer to his challenge he turned to Sandy.

"Ther' don't seem to be nuthin' doin'," he said, with a grim smile. "So ef you'll come right along we'll fix things out in the store. Guess you ken finish your hash after."

Sandy rose. For a moment Bill did not attempt to move. It was as though he were giving the rest of the boarders one last chance of accepting his challenge. But as no one offered any comment or made any attempt to stay him, he turned away at last with a sigh which was probably of disappointment, and led the way out into the store.

But if the men had made no comment in his presence, it was a different matter after his departure. Loud indignation broke out, and fierce, if impotent, protest passed from lip to lip. It was only for a few moments, however, and presently anger gave place to a realization of the absurdity of the whole thing.

The humor of these men was tickled. The whole thing was too ludicrous for words. To think that Wild Bill, the renowned sharp, the shrewdest, the wisest man on Suffering Creek, had fallen for such a proposition! It was certainly the funniest, the best joke that had ever come their way. How had it happened? they asked each other. Had Zip been clever enough to "salt" his claim? It was hardly likely. Only they knew he was hard up, and it was just possible, with his responsibilities weighing heavily on him, he had resorted to an illicit practice to realize on his property. They thought of and discussed every possible means they could think of by which Bill could have been lured to the hook—and caught—and landed. That was the joke. It was astounding. It was too good. To-morrow the whole camp would be ringing with laughter at the news, but—but the laughter was not likely to reach the gambler's ears.

In the meantime it was quite a different man who was lounging over Minky's counter talking to Sandy and the storekeeper. Bill had relieved the pressure of his mood for the moment, and now, like a momentarily exhausted volcano, he was enjoying the calm of reaction.

"I'll need you to start work right away," he was saying, "an' you ken draw on me fer all the supplies you need. It's a dandy claim," he went on grimly, "but I don't know fer sure what you'll likely find on it. Maybe you'll find suthin'—if you work long enough. Anyways, you'll start by sinkin' a shaft; an' you'll kep on sinkin' it till—till I tell you to quit."

"But that ain't the regular way gold—"

"Say, whose claim is it? Am I payin' you or not?" demanded the gambler sharply.

"Sure you are, but you said it was the richest—"

"That was back ther' at supper," said Bill coldly. "Guess supper's over."

Sandy had no quickness of understanding. He did not appreciate the fineness of the distinction. He shook his head solemnly.

"Maybe I ain't jest bright enuff to foller—"

"You ain't," agreed Bill shortly.

He winked at Minky, who was listening interestedly. Then he turned abruptly and pointed at the array of patent medicines adorning one of the shelves.

"Say," he cried, "'bout them physics."

Minky turned and gazed affectionately at the shelf. It was the pride of his store. He always kept it well dusted and dressed. The delicate wrappings and fancy labels always had a strong fascination for him. Then there were the curative possibilities of the contents of the inviting packages as set forth by the insistent "drummer" who sold them to him.

"An elegant stock," he murmured. "Sort of concentrated health." Then he glanced round anxiously. "Your hosses ain't ailin'?" he inquired. "I got most everything fer hosses. Ther's embrocation, hoss iles, every sort of lin'ments. Hoss balls? Linseed?"

The gambler shook his head.

"You ain't got physic fer men-folk?" he inquired.

"I sure have. But—but you ain't sick?" Minky eyed his friend narrowly.

Bill's mouth twisted wryly.

"I ain't jest sick," he replied. "But," he added hopefully, "you can't never be sure."

Minky nodded.

"That's so. I'd say you don't look a heap sick, though."

"You sure don't," agreed Sandy. "But, as you sez, you can't never tell. Now, you buyin' ha'f Zip's claim makes—" His words died down to a thoughtful murmur. Bill's look was somehow discouraging as he pointed at the medicine.

"What you got?" he demanded abruptly.

"Why, most everything," said Minky. "Ther', you see that longish bottle? That's a dandy cough cure. Guess you ain't needin' that? No? Ah!" as Bill shook his head, "I didn't guess you'd a cough. Corns? Now, this yer packet is an elegant fixin' fer corns, soft an' hard. It jest kills 'em stone dead, sure. It's bully stuff, but 'tain't good fer eatin'. You ain't got corns?" he inquired, as Bill again shook his head. "Ah, seems a pity." He turned again to the shelf, determined, if possible, to suit his customer, and lifted down a number of packets and sealed bottles. "Now, here," he cried, holding up a dainty box tied up with a delicate-colored ribbon. For a moment his audience believed it to be candy, but he quickly undeceived them. "Now this yer is dandy truck, though I don't guess ther's a heap o' use fer it on Suffering Creek. It's fer softening alkali water. When the drummer told me that, I guessed to him ther wa'an't a heap o' water drunk in this camp. But he said it wa'an't fer drinkin' water; it was fer baths. I kind o' told him that wouldn't help the sale any, so he said it could be used fer washin'. Seein' he couldn't sell me any that way neither, he got riled an' give me a present of it, an' said he guessed Sufferin' Creek did use water fer washing gold. Y'see, its price is a dollar an' a ha'f, but, seein' it's kind o' dead stock, you ken have it a present."

Bill took it.

"It's mine," he said. And Sandy watched him with some concern.

"You—you ain't takin' a bath?" he inquired nervously.

"Don't talk foolish," cried Bill, and turned again to his scrutiny of the shelf. "What else you got? Any stummick physic?"

"Sure." Minky held up a small bottle of tabloids. "Camel-hell," he said, with the assurance of a man who knows the worth of the article he is offering for sale. "Now this yer is Camel-hell—C-a-l-o-m-e-l. And I'd sure say the name is appropriate. That doggone 'drummer' feller said ther' was enough in one o' them bottles to kep the stummicks of a whole blamed menagerie right fer six months. It's real dandy—"

He broke off suddenly, and his look of enthusiasm was abruptly replaced by one of anxious interest that bordered closely on apprehension. His audience realized the change, and both men glanced swiftly in the direction whence the storekeeper's gaze had become so suddenly concentrated. Instantly they became aware that two strangers had quietly entered the store, and had taken their places at one of the tables under the open window.

Bill thought he recognized one of the men, but was not sure where he had seen him. Sandy saw nothing remarkable in their presence, and at once turned back to the counter.

"More of 'em," said Minky in a low tone, when finally Bill turned back to him.

"Yes. Many while I bin away?"

"Four or five. All—come along fer a game—it seems." Minky's eyes were brooding.

Suddenly a light of intelligence sprang into Bill's thoughtful face.

"Ah, I remember one o' them. I see him in Spawn City—in a bum gamblin' dive."

Sandy suddenly roused to a keen interest.

"Them strangers," he said—"that 'minds me I was talkin' to one last night. He was askin' me when a stage was running from here."

"What d'you tell him?" demanded Bill quickly, and Minky's eyes asked the question too.

Sandy laughed conceitedly.

"I sure said ther' wa'an't no stages runnin', with James' gang around. I wa'an't goin' to give nuthin' away to strangers. Y'see, if I'd pretended we was sendin' out stages, we'd have that gang hangin' around waitin'. 'Tain't no use in gatherin' wasps around a m'lasses-pot."

"No. You didn't tell him nuthin' else?" Bill inquired, eyeing him shrewdly.

"I did that," said Sandy triumphantly. "I filled him up good. I jest told him we was wise to James an' his gang, an' was takin' no chances, seein' Sufferin' Creek was such a rich lay-out. I told him we was bankin' up the gold right here, an' holdin' it till the pile was so big we could claim a Gover'ment escort that could snap their fingers at James an' his lay-out."

A swift exchange of glances passed between the gambler and the storekeeper. And then, in a quiet voice, Bill demanded—

"Anything else?"

"Nothing o' consequence," replied Sandy, feeling he had acquitted himself well. "He jest asted if Minky here banked the stuff, an' I 'lowed he did."

"Ah!" There was an ominous sparkle in Bill's eyes as he breathed his ejaculation. Then, with a quiet sarcasm quite lost on the obtuse widower, "You'd make an elegant sheriff's officer. You'd raise hell with the crooks."

Sandy appeared pleased with what he took for praise.

"I'd show 'em some—"

But Bill had turned to the storekeeper.

"We've got to git doin'. I've heerd a heap in Spawn City. Anyway, it was bound to git around. What he's said don't matter a heap. What I've heerd tells me we've got to git busy quick. We've got to clean you out of—stuff, or ther's goin' to be a most outrageous unhealthy time on Sufferin' Creek. We'll fix things to-morrer. Bein' Sunday," he added grimly, "it'll be an elegant day fer settin' things right. Meanwhiles, I'll ast you to fix me a parcel o' them physics, jest some of each, an' you ken git Sunny Oak to pass 'em right on to Zip fer his kids. Guess they'll worry out how best to dose 'em right."

Minky nodded, but his eyes were gloomily watching the two strangers sitting under the window. Sandy, however, suddenly brightened into a wide smile.

"Sure," he cried delightedly, slapping his thigh in his exuberance. "That's it. Course. It's all writ in the reg'lations fer raisin' them kids. Gee! you had me beat clear to death. Physic ev'ry Saturday night. Blamed if this ain't Saturday—an' t'-morrer's Sunday. An' I tho't you was sufferin' and needed physic. Say—"

But Bill, too, was watching the strangers with interested eyes. He was paying no sort of attention to this wonderful discovery of his bright friend.



CHAPTER XXI

SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS

Scipio's impulses were, from his own point of view, entirely practical. Whatever he did, he did with his whole heart. And if his results somehow missed coming out as he intended them, it was scarcely his fault. Rather was it the misfortune of being burdened with a superfluous energy, supported by inadequate thought.

And he felt something of this as he sat in his living-room and glanced round him at the unaccountable disorder that maintained. It was Sunday morning, and all his spare time in his home on Saturday had been spent in cleaning and scrubbing and putting straight, and yet—and yet—He passed a stubby hand across his forehead, as though to brush aside the vision of the confusion he beheld.

He knew everything was wrong, and a subconscious feeling told him that he had no power to put things right. It was curious, too. Every utensil, every stick of furniture, the floor, the stove, everything had been scrubbed and garnished at a great expense of labor. Everything had been carefully bestowed in the place which, to his mind, seemed most suited for its disposal. Yet now, as he gazed about him at the result, he knew that only a cleanly untidiness prevailed, and he felt disheartened.

Look at the children's clean clothes, carefully folded with almost painful exactness; yet they were like a pile of rags just thrown together. And their unironed condition added to the illusion. Every cooking-pot and pan had been cleaned and polished, yet, to his eyes, the litter of them suggested one of the heaps of iron scraps out on the dumps. How was it every piece of china looked forlornly suggestive of a wanderer without a home? No, he did not know. He had done his very best, and yet everything seemed to need just that magic touch to give his home the requisite well-cared-for air.

He was disappointed, and his feelings were plainly to be perceived in the regretful glance of his pale eyes. For some moments his optimistic energy rose and prompted him to begin all over again, but he denied himself this satisfaction as he glanced through the window at the morning sun. It was too high up in the sky. There was other work yet before him, with none too much time for its performance before the midday meal.

Instead, he turned to the "regulations" which Sunny Oak had furnished him with, and, with an index finger following out the words, he read down the details of the work for Sunday—in so far as his twins were concerned.

"Ah," he murmured, "I got the wash done yesterday. It says here Monday. That's kind of a pity." Then he brightened into hopefulness. "Guess I kin do those things again Monday. I sort o' fancy they could do with another wash 'fore the kiddies wear them. I never could wash clothes right, first time. Now, Sunday." His finger passed slowly from one detail to another. "Breakfast—yes. Bath. Ah, guess that comes next. Now, 'bout that bath." He glanced anxiously round him. Then he turned back to the regulations. "It don't say whether hot or cold," he muttered disappointedly.

For a moment he stood perplexed. Then he began to reason the matter out with himself. It was summer. For grown-ups it would naturally be a cold bath, but he was not so sure about children. They were very young, and it would be so easy for them to take cold, he thought. No, it had best be hot. He would cook some water. This thought prompting him, he set the saucepan on the stove and stirred the fire.

He was turning back to his regulations, when it occurred to him that he must now find something to bathe the children in. Glancing about amongst the few pots he possessed, he realized that the largest saucepan, or "billy," in the house would not hold more than a gallon of water. No, these were no use, for though he exercised all his ingenuity he could see no way of bathing the children in any of them. Once during his cogitations he was very nearly inspired. It flashed through his mind that he might stand each child outside of a couple of pots and wash them all over that way. But he quickly negatived the thought. That wasn't his idea of a bath. They must sit in the water.

He was about to give the matter up in despair, when, in a moment of inspiration, he remembered the washing-tub. Of course, that was the very thing. They could both sit in that together. It was down at the river, but he could easily fetch it up.

So he turned again in relief to the regulations. What next? He found his place, and read the directions out slowly.

"'After their bath kids needs an hour's Bible talk.'"

He read it again. And then a third time, so as to make quite sure. Then he turned thoughtfully to the door, staring out at the bright sunlight beyond. He could hear the children's voices as they played outside, but he was not heeding them. He was delving around in a hazy recollection of Bible subjects, which he vaguely remembered having studied when a child.

It was difficult—very difficult. But he was not beaten. There were several subjects that occurred to him in scraps. There was Noah. Then there was Moses. He recalled something of Solomon, and he knew that David slew a giant.

But none of these subjects amounted to more than a dim recollection. Of details he knew none. Worked into a thorough muddle with his worry, he was almost despairing again when suddenly he remembered that Jessie possessed a Bible. Perhaps it was still in the bedroom. He would go and see. It would surely help him. So he promptly went in search of it, and, in a few moments, was sitting down beside the table poring over it and studiously preparing himself for his forthcoming tutelary duties.



CHAPTER XXII

SUNDAY MORNING IN SUFFERING CREEK

On the veranda of the store was the usual Sunday morning gathering of the citizens of Suffering Creek, an impromptu function which occurred as regularly as the sun rose and set. Some of the men were clad in their best black broadcloth, resplendent, if shiny at the seams, and bespotted with drink and tobacco stains. But the majority had made no such effort to differentiate between the seventh day of the week and the other six. The only concession that everyone yielded, and then with bad enough grace in many instances, was to add to the boredom of their day of rest by performing a scanty ablution in the washing trough at the back of the store.

Minky was one of the few who clung to the customs of his up-bringing. He was there, ample, and gayly beaming, in "boiled" shirt, and a highly colored vest, which clashed effusively with his brilliantly variegated bow-tie, but of which he was inordinately proud.

It was the custom at these meetings to discuss any matters which affected the well-being of the community, to listen to any item of interest pointing the prosperity of the local gold industry, to thresh out complaints. In fact, it became a sort of Local Government Board, of which the storekeeper was president, and such men as Wild Bill, Sandy Joyce and one or two of the more successful miners formed the governing committee.

But it was yet comparatively early, and many sore heads were still clinging to their rough pillows. Saturday night was always a heavy occasion, and the Sunday morning sleep was a generally acknowledged necessity. However, this did not prevent discussion amongst those already assembled.

Wild Bill was not there. Sandy Joyce was still absent, although both had been long since stirring. Someone sarcastically suggested that they had gone off to inspect the gambler's rich strike before Sandy got to work on it on the morrow. This drew a great laugh at Wild Bill's expense. And it was only the loyal Minky's voice that checked it.

"You'se fellers are laffin'," he said, in good-humored reproval. "Wal, laff. I can't say I know why Bill's bo't that claim, but I'll say this: I'd a heap sooner foller his money than any other man's. I've sure got a notion we best do our laffin' right now."

"That's so," agreed Joe Brand reluctantly. "Bill's a cur'us feller. He's so mighty cur'us I ain't got much use for him—personal. But I'll say right here, he's wide enough to beat most any feller at any bluff he's got savvee to put up. Howsum, every 'smart' falls fer things at times. Y'see, they get lookin' fer rich strikes that hard, an' are so busy keppin' other folks out o' them, it's dead easy gettin' 'em trippin'. Guess that tow-headed sucker, Zip, 's got him trippin' about now, sure."

Minky shook his head. He did not believe it. If Bill had been caught napping, he must have willfully gone to sleep. He knew the man too well. However, he had no intention of arguing the matter with these people. So he turned away and stood staring out at the far distance beyond the creek.

In a few moments the whole matter was dismissed from his mind, and his thoughts filled with a something that lately had become a sort of obsession to him. It was the safety of his gold-dust that troubled, and as each day passed his apprehensions grew. He felt that trouble was threatening in the air of Suffering Creek, and the thought of how easily he might be taken at a disadvantage worried him terribly. He knew that it was imperative for him to unload his gold. But how? How could it be done in safety, in the light of past events? It was suicidal to send it off to Spawn City on a stage, with the James gang watching the district. And the Government—?

Suddenly his eyes lit excitedly. He pointed out across the creek with startling abruptness, in a direction where the land sloped gradually upwards towards the more distant foothills, in a broken carpet of pine woods. He was indicating a rift in the forest, where, for a long stretch, a wide clearing had been made by the axes of the pioneers of the camp.

"Ho, fellers!" he cried. "Get a peek yonder. Who's that?"

In an instant every eye followed the direction of his outstretched arm. And the men stood silently watching the progress of a horseman racing headlong through the clearing and making for the creek in front of them as fast as his horse could lay legs to the ground. So silent and intent did the group on the veranda become, that faint, yet sharply distinct, even at that distance, the thrashing of the horse's hoofs floated to their straining ears on the still morning air, and set them wondering.

On came the man at a furious pace. He was leaning far over his horse's neck, so that the whole weight of his body was well clear of the saddle. And as he came the waiting men could plainly see the rise and fall of his arm, as he mercilessly flogged his straining beast. It was Joe Brand who first broke the silence.

"Looks like Sid Morton," he hazarded. "I kind o' seem to mind his sorrel with four white legs. He's comin' from the right direction, too. Guess his ranch is ten miles up yonder. Say, he's makin' a hell of a bat."

"He sure is." Jim Wright, the oldest miner in the camp, blinked his red-rimmed eyes as they watered with the strain of watching, "It's trouble that's chasin' him," he added, with conviction. "Trouble o' some kind."

"What sort o' trouble?" Minky spoke half to himself. Just now there was only one idea of trouble in his mind.

Somebody laughed foolishly.

"There ain't many sorts o' trouble sets a man chasin' like that," said a voice in the background.

Minky glanced round.

"What are they, Van?" he inquired, and turned back again to his scrutiny of the on-coming horseman.

"Sickness, an'—guns," replied the man addressed as Van, with another foolish laugh. "If it's Sid he ain't got anybody out on his ranch to be sick, 'cep' his two 'punchers. An' I don't guess he'd chase for them. Must be 'guns.'"

No one answered him. Everybody was too intent on the extraordinary phenomenon. The man was nearing the creek. In a few seconds he would be hidden from view, for the opposite bank lay far below them, cut off from sight by the height of the rising ground intervening on the hither side.

A moment later a distinct movement amongst the watchers, which had something almost of relief in it, told that this had happened. Minky turned to Jim Wright, who chanced to be nearest him.

"It's Sid," he declared definitely.

The old man nodded.

"An' I guess Van's right," he agreed.

"He'll be along up in a minute," said Joe Brand.

Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news the man was bringing?

Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know. Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to wait.

Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and spur—and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before the eager crowd.

Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.

"I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me a horn o' whisky."

He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.

Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He passed the foundered horse on to his "choreman," and then himself procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his eyes.

The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the ominous stain.

"Wounded?" he inquired sharply.

"Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm done."

The ranchman spoke rapidly. For the moment at least his weakness seemed to have passed, and the weariness to have gone out of his eyes and voice. He strained eagerly, his eyes alight and bloodshot. The whisky had given him momentary courage, momentary strength; the drawn lines of rapidly draining life had smoothed out of his young cheeks.

"Here, listen," he cried, almost fiercely. "I'm beat. I know. But—but I want to tell you things. You needn't to notice that hole in my back." He writhed painfully. "Guess they—they got my lung or—or somethin'. Y'see, it's the James gang. Some of 'em are"—a spasm of pain shot athwart his face as he hesitated—"'bout three miles back ther'—"

At this point a terrible fit of coughing interrupted him, and blood trickled into the corners of his mouth. Minky understood. He dispatched one of the bystanders for some brandy, while he knelt down to the man's support. At once the drooping body sagged heavily upon his arm; but when the paroxysm had passed the weight lightened, and the dying man hurried on with his story, although his voice had lost more than half of its former ring.

"Ther' ain't much time," he said, with something like a gasp. "He's run off my stock, an' set my hay an' the corrals afire. He—he got us when we was roundin'—roundin' up a bunch o' steers. Y'see—y'see, we was in—in the saddle."

Again he paused. This time his breath came in gasps and deep-throated gurglings. He struggled on, however, stumbling and gasping with almost every second word.

"We put up a—scrap—good. An'—an' both—my boys was—was dropped cold. After I—I emptied—my gun—I—I hit—the trail for here. Then I—got it good. Say—"

Once more he was interrupted by a fit of terrible coughing. And the moment it eased the storekeeper held the brandy, which one of the boys had brought, to his blood-flecked lips. The poor fellow's end was not far off. The onlookers knew it. Minky knew there was practically nothing to be done for him. All these men had witnessed the approach of death in this form too often before. A lung pierced by a bullet! They could do nothing but look on curiously, helplessly and listen carefully to the story he was trying to tell.

The man struggled with himself for some moments. The strong young body was yielding reluctantly enough to the death-grip. And at last his words gasped haltingly upon the still air.

"Their plugs—wasn't—fresh. Mine—was. That give—me—the—legs—of 'em. But—they—rode—hard, an'—"

His voice died down to a whistling gasp and his eyes closed. He was sinking fast. Minky forced more brandy between his lips. And presently the drooping eyelids widened, and a momentary strength lifted the weakening body.

"They follered," he mumbled, "but—I—don't—know—how—many. 'Bout—three. Three—miles—back—I—I—lost—'em—"

His eyes were glazing and staring painfully. And as his last words hovered on his lips they were drowned by the gurgling and rattling in his throat. Suddenly a shudder passed through his frame. He started, his eyes staring wildly.

"I'm—done!" he gasped. His arms shot up convulsively, his legs flung out. And then all his weight dropped back on to the storekeeper's supporting arm. The next moment his body seemed to heave as with a deep, restful sigh, and his head lolled helplessly forward. He was dead.



CHAPTER XXIII

A BATH AND—

Scipio started and looked up as a joyous greeting from the children outside warned him of the approach of a visitor. He was rather glad of the interruption, too. He found the Bible offered him such an enormous field of research. It was worse than enormous; it was overwhelming. The Bible was really more than he could study in the few minutes he had allowed himself. As yet he had not found even one single mention of the few subjects he still retained a vague recollection of.

As he glanced at the doorway it was darkened by a familiar figure. Sunny Oak, as ragged, disreputable and unclean as usual, smiled himself into the room.

"Howdy, Zip?" he greeted genially. "Guessed I'd git around, seem' it was Sunday. Y'see, folks don't work any Sunday. I'd sure say it's a real blessin' folks is 'lowed to rest one day in seven. Talkin' o' work, I heerd tell you've took a pardner to your claim. Wild Bill's smart. He ain't bluffed you any?"

The loafer seated himself in the other chair with an air of utter weariness. He might just have finished a spell of the most arduous labor, instead of having merely strolled across the dumps. Scipio smiled faintly.

"He hasn't bluffed me any," he said gently. "Seems to me he wouldn't bluff me. Yes, he's in on ha'f my claim. Y'see, he thinks ther's gold in sight, an'—an' I know ther' ain't. That's what's troubling me. I kind of feel mean some."

Sunny yawned luxuriously.

"Don't you worry any," he said easily. "Bill's mighty wide. If he's come in on your claim he's—needin' to bad. Say—"

He broke off and turned alertly to the door. A sound of voices reached them, and a moment later Sandy Joyce and Toby stood grinning in the doorway.

"Gee!" cried Sunny. "Gettin' quite a party."

"I'm real pleased you folks come along," Scipio declared warmly. He stood up and looked round uncertainly. "Say," he went on, his pale face flushing a little ruefully, "come right in, boys. I don't see jest where you're goin' to sit. Maybe the table's good an' strong. This chair'll do for one."

But Toby would have none of it.

"Set you down, Zip," he cried. "I got this doorway. Guess the table'll fit Sandy. He's kind o' high in his notions. I jest see Bill comin' along up from the river. Looked like he was comin' this way. How's the kids?"

"Why, bully," said Scipio amiably. "Y'see, I got 'em fixed right all right since Sunny wrote out those regulations for me. Those regulations are jest dandy, and I'm desperate obliged to him. A feller would need to be a bum sort of fool, anyhow, who couldn't fix kids right with it all set out so careful. There sure are things set down there I'd never have thought of—an' I'm their father, too." He paused and glanced nervously round at the friendly faces. Then, with evident anxiety, he hurried on. "I was just thinkin'," he exclaimed, "maybe some hot coffee wouldn't come amiss. Y'see, I ain't no rye. Guess I'll make that coffee right away. I got water cooking on the stove. I was goin' to use it for bathin' the kids, but—"

His visitors exchanged swift glances, and Sunny broke in. "Don't do it, Zip," he said with an amiable grin. "These boys don't figger to unpickle their vitals with no sech truck as coffee. Say"—his eyes wandered to where his carefully written regulations were posted, "talkin' o' baths, have you physicked the kids right?"

Scipio, feeling somewhat relieved, returned to his chair and lodged himself upon its edge. He could not settle himself at his ease. Somehow he felt that these men were entirely his superior in all those things which count for manhood; and the kindness of such a visit rather overwhelmed him. Then, too, he was sincerely regretting his inadequate hospitality. Now he became nervously enthusiastic.

"I sure did," he cried eagerly. "Those physics were real elegant. If you'll tell me what they cost you, Sunny, I'll square up now. How—"

He pulled out some money, but the loafer waved it aside with ridiculous dignity.

"Thievin' doctors needs pay. I ain't no bum doc. What you give 'em—the kids?"

Scipio bundled his money back into his pocket, flushing at the thought that he had unintentionally insulted his benefactor.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "I didn't give 'em no corn cure. Y'see," he added apologetically, "I couldn't find no corns on 'em to speak of. But," he went on more hopefully, "I give 'em the cough cure. They ain't got no coughs, neither of 'em, but, seein' they was to take a bath, I guessed it 'ud be a kind of precaution. Then there were them powders. How were they called? Why—Lick—Lick—well, they were called Lick—something. Anyways, I give 'em one each. They didn't take 'em easy, an' was nigh sick, but they got 'em down after awhile. Then, seein' they got bruises on their legs, playin', I rubbed 'em good with hoss lin'ment. After that I give 'em some o' that tonic—quinine an' something. An' then, seein' they couldn't eat food this mornin', an' had got sick headaches, I give 'em one o' them fizzy Seidlitz fellers between 'em. Jamie bein' the smallest I give him the thin white packet, an' the other, the blue one, I give to Vada. That seemed to fix them good, an I guess they're most ready fer their baths by now."

"I guessed you'd treat 'em right," approved Sunny seriously. "Ther' ain't nothin' like physic. You're sure a wise guy, Zip."

Sandy Joyce agreed, too.

"You was dead right," he said impressively. "It don't never do takin' chances with kids o' that age. Chances is bum things, anyway. Y'see, kids ken ketch such a heap o' things. Ther's bile, an' measles, an' dropsy, an' cancer, an' hydryfoby, an' all kinds o' things. They's li'ble to ketch 'em as easy as gettin' flies wi' molasses. An' some o' them is ter'ble bad. Ever had hydryfoby? No? Wal, I ain't neither, but I see a feller with it oncet, an' he jest went around barkin' like a camp dog chasin' after swill bar'ls, an' was scared to death o' water—"

"Some folks don't need hydryfoby fer that," put in Toby, with a grin.

"Ther' ain't no call fer you buttin' in," flashed Sandy angrily. "Guess I'm talkin' o' things you ain't heerd tell of. You ain't out o' your cradle yet."

He turned back to his host and prepared to continue his list of horrors, but Sunny forestalled him.

"Talkin' o' water," he said, "you ain't bathed the kids yet?"

Scipio shook his head.

"The water's cookin'."

"Cookin'?" Toby whistled.

Sunny sat up, all interest.

"Hot bath?" he inquired, with wide eyes. "You ain't givin' 'em a hot bath?" he exclaimed incredulously.

A troubled look came into Scipio's pale eyes. He doubted his purpose in face of his friends' astonishment.

"Why, yes. That's how I was thinking," he said weakly. "Y'see, I guessed it would soften the dirt quicker, and make it easy wipin' it off."

"But ain't you scared o' them—peelin'?" inquired Sandy, refusing to be left out of the discussion.

Scipio looked perplexed.

"Peelin'?" he said. "I—I don't think I get you."

"Why," explained Sandy readily, "peelin' their skins off 'em. You allus sets potatoes in b'ilin' water to git their skins peeled quick. Same with hogs. Same with most anything. I call that a fool chance to take."

Scipio's perplexity merged into a mild smile.

"I wouldn't jest set 'em into boilin' water," he explained; "kind of warm, with a bit o' soda."

Sunny approved.

"That sure don't sound too bad," he declared. "But wot about 'em gettin' cold? Takin' all that dirt off sudden, y'see—"

"He's dosed 'em wi' cough cure," broke in Toby.

"Sure," agreed Sunny. "I'd fergot—Say"—he turned to the doorway and craned towards it—"here's—here's Wild Bill coming along."

Toby promptly scrambled up from the door-sill and made way for the Trust president. He strode into the room with a quick glance round and a short, harsh "Howdy?" for the lesser members of his corporation. His manner towards Scipio was no less unbending.

And, curiously enough, his coming silenced all further discussion. Scipio had nothing to say whatever, and the others felt that here was their leader from whom they must take their cue.

Nor was it long in coming. Scipio rose and offered his chair to the newcomer, but the gambler promptly kicked the proffered seat aside, and took up his position on the fuel-box. He glared into the little man's face for a few seconds, and then opened his lips.

"Wal?" he drawled.

Scipio stirred uneasily.

"I'm real glad to see you, Bill," he managed to mumble out. "I ain't got no rye—"

"Rye—hell!" The gambler was not a patient man, and the laws of hospitality interested him not in the least. "Say"—he pointed at the open Bible on the table beside Sandy—"takin' on psalm-smitin'?"

Scipio hurled himself into the breach.

"It's them regulations Sunny give me for raisin' the kids. They need a Bible talk after their bath. I bin readin' up some."

A momentary twinkle flashed into the gambler's eyes.

"Have you give 'em their bath?" he demanded.

Scipio pointed at the stove, on which the water was already boiling.

"The water's cookin'," he said. "Guess it's most ready." The gambler glanced round the room severely.

"Then why the devil is you'se fellers settin' around? Wher's the tub?"

"Down at the creek. It's the wash-tub," Scipio explained, bestirring himself. The other men stood up ready.

There was no doubt that Bill had taken possession of the situation. He always seemed to dominate his fellows. Now he caught Scipio's eye and held him.

"Jest gather the things up quick," he said authoritatively, "an' we'll get busy."

And as Scipio heaped up the necessary articles for the bath on the table, he looked on with the keenest interest. Finally the little man paused beside the heap, holding in his hand the box of water-softener, which he was eyeing somewhat doubtfully. Bill's eyes still twinkled.

"Wot's that?" he demanded in his savage way, as though he had never seen the box before.

"That? Why, that's for bathin'," said Scipio doubtfully. "Y'see, it's a fixin' swell ladies in Noo York an' such places use for makin' their baths soft an' dandy. Sunny brought it along last night. He guessed it would be elegant for the kids. Y'see, his mother sent it a present to him. He didn't reckon he had use for it, seein' he took his bath in the creek every mornin'. He guessed natural water was best for him."

Bill snorted.

"Sunny's a bright lad," he said, while Toby softly exploded with laughter in the doorway.

But the gambler was bent on the purpose in hand, and promptly dismissed the loafer's fairy-story from his mind.

"Here, get around and bear a hand," he cried, indicating the pile on the table. "You, Toby, quit laffin' an' git a holt on them clean laundry. An' say, don't you muss 'em any. Sunny, you best pile up them washin' fixin's—that hand-scrubber, the soap, that wash-flannel an' the towels. Guess that's the nighest you'll ever come to bathin' yourself. Sandy Joyce ken carry the hot water, an', if Zip's yaller pup gets around, see you don't scald him any. Guess I'll handle these yer dippers. That way Zip'll be free to take the kids along. After they're bathed they ken set around in the sun, while Zip gives 'em a real elegant Bible talk."

The whole thing was simplicity itself in the capable hands of a man of Bill's energy. But for his advent the bath might have been delayed until the water on the cookstove had boiled away. What with Sandy's love of debate and Sunny's indolence, the visit of these men might have been prolonged for hours. As it was, in five minutes after Bill's appearance upon the scene the cortege was ready to set out for the water's edge; and not only ready, but more than willing to submit the all-unconscious twins to the combination of their inexperienced efforts in matters ablutionary. The one saving clause for the poor little creatures was the presence of their father and a man of practical intelligence such as the gambler. How they might have fared at the hands of the others is a matter best not contemplated too closely.

At a word from Wild Bill the procession set out. Scipio headed it, with a child clinging to each hand, doddling along at his side all blissfully unconscious, but delighted at going whither their elders led them. Vada babbled with delight, and kept up a fire of chattering questions in a truly feminine manner, while little Jamie, stolid but no less joyous, devoured everything with hungry, thoughtful eyes, and punctuated his sister's remarks with characteristic grunts, and an occasional emphatic ejaculation and protest at the yellow pup, who would lick his dirty legs.

Behind these came Sandy Joyce, the picture of absurd dignity, as he vainly strove to carry the boiler of water without scalding himself. Toby came immediately behind him, with the bundle of laundry, a tumbled mass in his arms, crushed firmly to his stout chest, lest, by any ill-fate, he should drop any of the strange garments, which looked so absurdly small in his ignorant eyes.

Next came Sunny with the cleansing properties, which he carried gingerly, as though the very nature of them were repugnant to him, and the labor of carrying them an offense to his creed of life. The soap particularly troubled him. Its slippery nature made him drop it several times, till it seemed almost as though it resented him personally, and was trying to escape from the insult of such association. Wild Bill brought up the rear of the column, bearing the bright tin dippers, which clattered violently as they swung together on their string loops. He suggested nothing so much as a herder driving before him his unusual flock by the aid of a violent rattling on tin cans.

Solemnly the procession wound its way down the hill. Only the voices of the children, the yapping of the pup and the clatter of tinware enlivened the journey. The men's minds were engrossed with their various charges. It was serious—desperately serious. But then, a bath in any form, much less a bath of two small children, was an affair of the gravest importance to these men. Then, too, there was nervousness with it. Everybody felt responsible, from the father to the desperate instigator of what was, in their minds, something almost amounting to an outrage.

However, the windings and roughnesses of the path, as it twisted its way through the scrubby bushes lining the creek bank, were finally negotiated more or less satisfactorily. The mishaps were not as great as might have been anticipated. Sandy only scalded himself twice, and his curses had to be stifled by a sharp reprimand from the gambler. Toby skidded down the slope once, and only saved the laundry at the personal expense of a torn shirt and a grazed elbow. Sunny, except for his difference of opinion with the soap, enjoyed no other mishap, and Bill's only transgression was to send one of the dippers, amidst a volley of curses, hurtling at the yellow pup, who at one time threatened to upset all Sandy's dignity, and incidentally the boiling water, by getting mixed up with that worthy widower's legs.

The halt was made beside the wash-tub, and childish curiosity promptly asserted itself.

"You ain't washin' more clothes, poppa?" demanded Vada, with wide questioning eyes. "Ain't this Sunday?"

"Pop-pa wash tothes," mumbled Jamie.

Sunny took it upon himself to put the matter right in the small minds. He beamed upon the children.

"Poppa's going to wash you," he said, with unction.

"Wot for?" demanded Vada. "We ain't done nothin'."

"'Cos you needs it," replied the loafer, uncomfortably avoiding the blandly questioning eyes.

"Ugh!" interjected Jamie.

"We ain't as dirty as you," said Vada, after a thoughtful pause.

Sunny busied himself laying out the utensils on the grassiest spot he could find. Toby glanced round after depositing the laundry department. He guffawed loudly, and went on with his work. Sunny's face went a dirty scarlet, but he refrained from retort. And promptly little Vada went on.

"I don't want bath," she protested plaintively. And Jamie chorused in with a grunt of agreement, while he busied himself trying to climb up the sides of the tub.

Scipio snatched him away, and looked round weakly for support. It came in a sharp command from Bill, who had seated himself on a fallen tree-trunk.

"Git busy," he ordered. "Set that doggone water in the tub, an' Sunny ken dip the boiler full of cold. You boys ken do that while Zip gets the kids ready. Guess he'll likely know best wher' the strings an' buttons is."

His orders were silently executed by the men. But the children had no awe of the gambler, and their protests were many and querulous. However, the tub was filled satisfactorily, and Scipio finally succeeded in fumbling the clothes off the children.

It was a curious scene. Scipio moved about with an air of the mildest perplexity. Sunny slouched through his work as though it were the hardest of labor, although he was really enjoying himself. Toby was grinning all over his face with huge enjoyment, while Sandy performed his share with such an aspect of care that his labors might have been of an absolutely epoch-making nature. Bill suggested simple authority. The "kids" must be bathed, and he was going to see it done.

When all preparations had been made, Scipio became the chief operator, and each man took up his position where best he could witness the process. There was something so mildly stimulating to these ruffians in observing the clumsy lavering of two small children. They all appreciated cleanliness in theory; it was only the practice that they were unaccustomed to, and here it was being demonstrated before their interested eyes. They watched Scipio's efforts for some moments in silence, while he, with gentle persuasion, overcame each childish protest. He did it in such a kindly, patient way that very soon these small atoms of humanity, sitting facing each other cross-legged in the tub, gained ample confidence, and gave expression to infantile delight by splashing each other with water, and incidentally treating their father to an even less welcome bath.

They laughed and crowed and chattered while their father plied the house-flannel, and only were their piping voices quiet at such moments as their small round faces were smothered with soapsuds, or lost in the embracing folds of the none too savory cloth.

But on the part of the spectators, their interest would not permit of long silence. And it was Sandy Joyce, quite irrepressible where advice was concerned, who found it necessary to interfere.

"Ain't you rubbin' 'em too hard?" he questioned, after prolonged cogitation.

Scipio turned to reply in the midst of swabbing Jamie's lower limbs. He was holding one foot dangerously high in the air, and the movement caused him to upset the child's balance, so that his upper part promptly disappeared beneath the frothing suds. A wild splashing and yell from Vada warned her father of the threatened tragedy, and Jamie was hauled up, coughing and spluttering. The little man, with scared face, sought at once to pacify the frightened child, while Sunny withered the interfering widower with a few well-chosen words.

"Say, you'd butt in an' tell folk they wasn't nailin' up your coffin right," he cried angrily. "Will you kep that instrument o' foolishness o' yours quiet fer ten minutes?"

Sandy flushed.

"They ain't got hides like hogs," he grumbled. "They needs handlin' easy. Say, jest look what he's doin' now. What's—"

He broke off, and all eyes watched Scipio's movements as he turned Jamie over, and, supporting his dripping body in the crook of his arm, plied the flannel upon the boy's back. The moment was a tense one. Then a sigh of relief went up as the child dropped back in the water with a splash.

"I ain't never see kids handled that way," cried the disgusted Sandy, unable to keep silence any longer. Then, as no one seemed inclined to question his statement, he went on, "Wot I sez is, kids needs women-folk to do they things right. Zip's handlin' 'em like raw beef." Then he turned on Sunny, whose rebuke was still rankling. "Guess you'll say he ain't—bein' contrary. Now, ef I was washin' 'em, I'd—"

"Shut up," cried Wild Bill harshly. Then he added, with biting sarcasm, "I ain't surprised you're a widder-man."

Toby made no attempt to disguise his laughter, and it maddened the unfortunate Sandy; and if a look could have killed, Sunny would have died grinning. However, the widower sheltered himself in the silence demanded of him until the children were lifted out of the tub and dried by their patient father. Nor did he even attempt to further interfere while their parent struggled them into their little woolen undershirts.



CHAPTER XXIV

—A BIBLE TALK

It was with a sigh of relief that Scipio now turned to Wild Bill. Somehow, he naturally looked to him for guidance. Nor did he quite know why.

"'Bout that Bible talk?" he inquired. "Guess you said they best set around in the sun."

Bill nodded.

"I sure did. Guess they kind o' need airin' some. 'Tain't no use in settin' in their clothes damp; they'll be gettin' sick, sure. Ther's a dandy bit o' grass right here. Best set 'em down, an' get around an' hand 'em your talk."

But the worried father pushed his weedy hair off his forehead with a troubled air.

"I haven't read up a deal," he apologized.

The gambler promptly swept his objection aside.

"That don't figger any. Once you get goin' you won't find no trouble. It's dead easy after you're started. That's the way it is with passons. They jest get a holt of a notion, an' then—why, they jest yarn."

"I see," replied Scipio doubtfully, while the other men gathered round. "But," he went on more weakly still, "'bout that notion?"

Bill stirred impatiently.

"That's it. You start right in with the notion."

"Course," cried Sandy. "The notion's easy. Why, ther's heaps o' things you ken take as a notion. Say, wa'an't ther' a yarn 'bout some blamed citizen what took to a cave, an' the checkens an' things got busy feedin' him?"

"Ravens," said Sunny.

"Ravens nuthin'," cried the indignant Sandy. "Checkens of the air, they was."

Sunny shrugged.

"That ain't no sort o' Bible talk, anyway," he protested. "You need suthin' what gives 'em a lesson. Now, ther's Nore an' his floatin' ranch—"

"That wa'an't a ranch neither," contradicted Sandy promptly. "It was jest a barn."

"Ark," said Toby.

"Wal, ark then," admitted Sandy. He didn't mind Toby's interference.

But the discussion was allowed to go no further. Bill's impatience manifested itself promptly.

"Say, it don't matter a cuss whether it was an ark or a barn or a ranch. Sunny's yarn goes. Now, jest set around an' git the kids in the middle, an' you, Zip, git busy with this Nore racket."

The last authority had given its decision. There was no more to be said, and the matter was promptly proceeded with. The expectant children, who had stood by listening to the discussion of their elders, were now seated on the grass, and before them sat the board of Scriptural instruction. Bill remained in his position on the tree-trunk. On the ground, cross-legged, sat Scipio, on his right. Sunny lounged full length upon the ground next to him. Sandy and Toby formed the other horn of the half-circle on the gambler's left.

It was a quaint picture upon which the warm noon sun shone down. The open grass clearing, surrounded with tall dense bushes. On one side the wash-tub and the various appurtenances of the bath, with the creek a little way beyond. And in the open, sitting alone, side by side, their little pink bodies bare of all but their coarse woolen undershirts, their little faces shining with wholesome soap, their eyes bright with expectancy for the story that was to come, the two pretty children of a lonely father. Then, in a semicircle about them, the members of the Trust, with their hard, unclean faces, their rough clothes and rougher manners, and their uncultured minds driven by hearts that were—well, just human.

"Git busy," ordered Bill, when the Trust had finally settled itself.

And promptly Scipio, with more determination than discretion, cleared his throat and plunged into his peroration.

His mild face beamed. Gentleness and affection shone in every line of it. And somehow his diffidence, the realization of his ignorance of the work demanded of him, were absorbed and lost to his consciousness in the wonderful parental delight of teaching his offspring.

"Say, kiddies," he began, with that soft inflection that seems so much a part of some men of rough manners, "I want you to listen careful to a yarn I'm goin' to tell you about. Y'see—"

He hesitated, and unconsciously one hand was lifted and passed across his brow with a movement that suggested puzzlement. It was as though he were not quite sure whither his story were going to lead him.

The gambler nodded encouragingly.

"Bully," he murmured, turning his eyes just for one moment in the little man's direction. But it was only for a moment. The next he was staring absorbedly out at the bush opposite, like a man lost in some train of thought far removed from the matter in hand. His beady eyes stared unsmilingly, but with curious intentness.

However, Scipio was far too much concerned with what lay before him to think of anything else. But the sharply spoken encouragement spurred him, and he went ahead.

"Now, maybe you both heard tell how God made this funny old world for us to live in," he went on, endeavoring to give lightness to his manner. "He made Sufferin' Creek, too—"

Toby coughed, and Sandy whispered audibly to him.

"I don't guess Zip ought to run Sufferin' Creek in this yarn," he said seriously. "Sufferin' Creek don't seem right in a Bible talk."

Scipio waited, and then, ignoring the comment, labored clumsily on.

"Now, I'm goin' to tell you a yarn about it. Y'see, kiddies—y'see, ther' weren't a heap o' folk around when God first fixed things right—"

"Jest one man an' a snake," interrupted Sandy in his informative way.

"Shut up," whispered Toby, prodding him with his elbow. Sandy scowled, but remained silent.

"Wal," continued Scipio, "as I was sayin', He jest made one sort o' sample man an' a snake. An'," he added, suddenly brightening under inspiration, "He sot 'em in a garden, an' called it the Garden of Eden."

Little Vada suddenly clapped her hands.

"Yes, an' it was all flowers an'—an' fruit," she cried ecstatically.

Jamie's eyes were dancing with delight, too, but he remained silent, waiting for developments.

The members of the Trust looked on with the deepest interest. Each man's face wore a half-smile—that is, all except the gambler's, who still appeared to be absorbed in his own thought—and the bush opposite. But the interest of these men was less in the little man's story than in a speculation as to when he was going to break down, and yield his tutelary attitude before a battery of infantile questions.

However, Scipio was still in a fairly strong position.

"Well," he agreed, "I do guess ther' was fruit ther', but I don't guess it was a fruit ranch exactly. Maybe it was sort of mixed farmin'. Howsum, that don't matter a heap. Y'see, ther' was heaps an' heaps of animals, an' bugs, an' spiders, an' things—an' jest one man."

"Ther' was a woman," corrected the irrepressible Sandy. "That's dead sure. They got busy on one of the man's ribs an' made her. Ain't that so, Toby?"

He turned to the squat figure beside him for corroboration, but Sunny took up the matter from across the semicircle.

"You're a wise guy," he exclaimed scornfully. "Can't you kep from buttin' in? Say, I'd hate to know sech a heap as you."

Just for an instant Wild Bill turned his sharp eyes on his companions.

"Shut up you'se all," he cried. And promptly Scipio was allowed to continue his story.

"Now, 'bout that garden," he said thoughtfully. "Y'see, God told that feller he wasn't to pick no fruit. Y'see, I guess it was needed fer cannin' or preservin'. Maybe it was needed for makin' elegant candy. I don't know rightly—"

"You're talkin' foolish," exclaimed Sandy, jumping up excitedly. "Cannin'?" he cried scornfully. "They didn't can fruit them days."

"Maybe you're right," said Scipio apologetically.

"I know I am," snorted Sandy.

"Then shut up," cried Bill, without turning his head.

"Anyhow," went on Scipio, when all argument had ceased, "it was jest up to that feller not to pick that fruit. An' he didn't mean to neither, only he got kind o' friendly with that snake—"

Little Vada jumped up.

"I know—I know," she cried, in the wildest excitement. "The snake made him eat an apple, an' then the rain came down, an' poured an' poured—"

"Poured an' poured," echoed Jamie, jumping to his feet and dancing around his sister.

"That's so," admitted Scipio, in relief.

"Poured nothin'," murmured Sandy under his breath. "He's messin' up the whole yarn."

But as his comment didn't reach the father's ears he went on placidly.

"Wal, the rain poured down," he said, "so they was nigh drownded—"

"Why'd the rain tum?" suddenly inquired Jamie with interest.

"Ah!" murmured Scipio. Then he added brightly, "Because he picked the fruit."

"Y'see," explained Vada, with sisterly patronage, "he didn't orter picked the apple."

Jamie nodded without understanding.

"'Ess."

"Wal," went on Scipio, taking advantage of the pause, "he was nigh drownded, an' he had to swim an' swim, an' then he built himself a ranch."

"Barn," cried Sandy, unable to keep quiet any longer. "It was a barn to kep his stock in."

"Ark," said Toby decidedly. "He built a Nore's Ark—same as toys kiddies plays with."

"But Bill said Sunny's yarn goes," protested the troubled Scipio. And, receiving an affirmatory nod from the preoccupied gambler, he went on. "Wal, he set that ranch afloat, an' put out a boat an' rescued all the other animals, an' bugs, an' spiders, an' things, an' then set out a duck to see how things was going—"

"Not a duck, Zip," said Sunny, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"Course not," agreed Sandy scornfully.

"Pigeon," suggested Toby.

But little Vada saved the situation. She jumped to her feet, dragging Jamie with her. Her dark eyes were shining, and her round little cheeks were scarlet with excitement.

"It wasn't a duck, nor a pigeon, nor nothin' but a parrot," she declared. "Momma told us. He sent out a parrot; an' it flew, an' flew, an' flew. An' then it come back to the ark, carryin' a tree in its beak. An' then Nore knew there wasn't no more rain, nor nothing, an' they turned his wife into a pillow o' salt 'cos she'd made him eat the apple. An', pop-pa, tell us another."

"'Ess, a nudder," cried Jamie, his chubby fat legs wabbling under him as he danced about—"a nudder—a nudder—a nud—"

But his lisping request was never completed, for, without a word of warning, Wild Bill suddenly leapt from his seat, and, with a wave of his arm, swept the two children sprawling into their father's lap, while he charged across the clearing. Just for a fraction of a second he paused as he closed on the bush he had so long contemplated, and his friends heard his voice in a furious oath.

"You son of a—!" he roared; and simultaneously there was a flash and a sharp report from his gun—another, and yet another. Then he vanished into the bush, his smoking revolver still in his hand ready for use, followed, with no less speed, by Toby and Sandy Joyce.

For a moment Scipio stared; but Sunny Oak seemed to grasp something of the situation. He flung himself before the two children, his right hand gripping a revolver which he always carried concealed amongst his rags. And at the same moment the gambler's voice came back to him.

"Huyk them kids right back to the store, an' kep 'em there!" it cried. And instantly the indolent loafer, with a movement almost electrical in its swiftness, seized Vada in his arms and dashed off up the hill, followed by the little father, bearing the screaming Jamie in his.

Inside the bush the three men searched, with eyes and ears alert in the fashion of furious terriers. The branches and inner leaves were spattered with blood, showing that the gambler's shots had taken some effect. The ground, too, was covered with footprints.

With a rush Bill set off trailing the latter, and so soft was the ground that he had little or no difficulty in the matter. The trail took them along the creek bank, and here and there a splash of blood warned them that their quarry was severely wounded.

But, even so, they were doomed to disappointment. Thirty yards from the clearing they came to a spot where the moist soil was well beaten with horse's hoofs, and here the human footprints ended. All three men stared out down the creek. And then it was that another furious oath escaped the gambler's lips, as he beheld a racing horseman making good his escape, more than a hundred yards below them.

For some moments Wild Bill stood raging impotently. Then he turned on his companions, with a perfect devil glaring out of his ferocious eyes.

"God's curse light on 'em!" he roared. "It's James' gang. May his soul rot. I'll get 'em! I'll get 'em! They're after those kids. But, by the wall-eyed Mackinaw, they shan't touch a hair o' their heads as long as I'm a livin' man. It's war, boys! D'ye hear? It's him an' me. Me—an' James! An' I swar to God he'll go down an' out as sure as my name's Wild Bill!"



CHAPTER XXV

WILD BILL FIRES A BOMB

When Wild Bill returned to his hut later on in the afternoon he was consumed by a cold, hard rage, such as comes but rarely in the life of any man. There was no demonstrativeness: he had no words to give it expression. It was the rage of a man who coldly, calmly collects every faculty of brain and body into one great concentration for harm to its object. It was a moment when every evil thought and feeling was drawn into a cruel longing for harm—harm calculated to be of the most merciless description.

Neither of the companions who had joined him in the pursuit of the man they had discovered lurking down at the river had any real understanding of what lay in the back of the gambler's mind. His outburst there had been the first volcanic rage which had lit the fires of hate now burning so deep down in his intolerant heart. That outburst they had understood. That was the man as they knew him. But this other man they knew nothing of. This was the real man who returned to his hut, silent and ghastly, with implacable hatred burning in his heart.

All three had hurriedly and silently returned to the store from their futile chase. Bill offered no explanation, and his manner was so forbidding that even the intrepid Sandy had found no use for the questions he would so gladly have put.

When they arrived, Scipio and Sunny, with the twins, had reached the place just before them. But they were lost sight of in the rush that was made to tell the gambler of the happenings at Sid Morton's ranch. Nor had he any choice but to listen to the luridly narrated facts. However, his choice did fall in with their desires, and, after the first brief outline, told with all the imagination this varied collection of beings was capable of, he found himself demanding, as eagerly as they were waiting to tell, every detail of the matter, and even went so far as to examine the body of the dead rancher, roughly laid out in the barn on a bed of hay. He listened almost without comment, which was unusual in him. His manner displayed no heat. He was cold, critical, and his only words were to ask sharp and definitely pointed questions. Then, having given Minky instructions for the safeguarding of the children, he departed without even mentioning his own adventure down at the river.

But if he neglected to do so, it was otherwise with his friends, the other members of the Trust. The moment his back was turned they shed the story broadcast, each man competing with the other in his endeavor to make it thoroughly palatable to the sensation-loving ears of their fellow-townsmen. And probably of them all Sandy was the most successful.

In half-an-hour, loyally supported by his friends, he had the whole of Suffering Creek strung to such a pitch of nervous excitement that every man was set looking to his firearms, and all talk was directed towards the most adequate means of defending their homes and property.

In the briefest possible time, from a peaceful, industrious camp, Suffering Creek was transformed into a war base, every citizen stirred not only to defense of his own, but with a longing to march out to the fray, to seek these land pirates in the open and to exterminate them, as they would willingly exterminate any other vermin.

Men talked war. Brains were feverishly racked for strategy, and for historical accounts of a similar situation in which a town rose to arms and took the law into its own hands. Stories flew from lip to lip, and, as is usual under such stress, so did the convivial glass.

And the result which followed was quite in keeping with the occasion. Quarrels and bickerings occurred, which kept the place at fever-heat until the store closed down for the night and the supply of liquor was cut off. Then slumber brought its beneficent opiate to distracted nerves.

Throughout it all Minky kept his head level. Whatever he felt and thought, he had nothing to offer on the altar of public suggestion. He knew that of all these irresponsible debaters he had the most to lose. Nor did he feel inclined to expose anything of the risk at which he stood. It was a depressing time for him, so depressing that he could see very little hope. His risk was enormous. He felt that the probability was that this raiding gang were well enough posted as to the store of gold he held in his cellars. He felt that, should James or any of his people decide upon a coup, the attack would be well timed, when the miners were out at their work, and he and the camp generally were left defenseless.

What could he do? He must rid himself of the "dust" somehow. He must dispose of it secretly. A hiding—that seemed to him, amidst his trouble, to be the only thing. But where? That was the thing. He must consult Bill. To his mind Bill was the only man upon whom he could place any real reliance, upon whose judgment he could depend. So, with his shrewd eyes ever on the watch for strangers amongst his customers, he longed for the hours to pass until he could close his store and seek the gambler in his hut.

In the meantime Wild Bill had cut himself off from his fellows, spending the long evening hours in the solitude of his humble dwelling. The man was strangely calm, but his fierce eyes and pale face told of an enormous strain of thought driving him. His mind was sweeping along over a series of vivid pictures of past events, mixed up with equally vivid and strongly marked scenes of possible events to come. He was reviewing silently, sternly, a situation which, by some extraordinary kink in his vanity, he felt it was for him to assume the responsibility of. He felt, although with no feeling of pride, that he, and he alone, could see it through.

The fact of the matter was that, by some strange mental process, James' doings—his approach to the camp, in fact his very existence—had somehow become a direct individual challenge to him. Without acknowledging it to himself, he in some subtle way understood that everything this desperado did was a challenge to him—a sneering, contemptuous challenge to him. James was metaphorically snapping his fingers under his very nose.

That these were his feelings was undeniable. That the thoughts of the possibilities of an attack on the camp were the mainspring of his antagonism to the man, that this voluntary guardianship of Scipio and his twins was the source of his rage against him, it was impossible to believe. They may have influenced him in a small degree, but only in a small degree. The man was cast in a very different mold from that of a simple philanthropist. It was the man's vanity, the headstrong vanity of a strong and selfish man, that drove him. And as he sat silently raging under his thoughts of the happenings of that day, had he put his paramount feelings into words he would have demanded how James dared to exist in a district which he, Wild Bill of Abilene, had made his own.

He spent the evening sitting on his bed or pacing his little hut, his thoughts tumbling headlong through his brain. He found himself almost absently inspecting his armory, and loading and unloading his favorite weapons. There was no definite direction in anything he thought or did, unless it were in the overwhelming hatred against James which colored his every feeling. Without realizing it, every force of mind and body was seeking inspiration.

And the evening was well-nigh spent before inspiration came. Careless of time, of everything but his feelings, he had finally flung himself full length upon his bed, brain-weary and resourceless. Then came the change. As his head touched the pillow it almost seemed to rebound; and he found himself sitting up again glaring at the opposite wall with the desired inspiration in his gimlet eyes.

"Gee!" he breathed, with a force that sent the exclamation hissing through the room.

And for an hour his attitude remained unchanged. His legs were drawn up and his long arms were clasped about his knees. His eyes were fiercely focused upon a cartridge-belt hanging upon the wall, and there they remained, seemingly a fixture, while thought, no longer chaotic, flew through his revivified brain. He gave no sign; he uttered no word. But his face told its story of a fiendish joy which swept from his head to his heart, and thrilled his whole body.

It was in the midst of this that he received a visit from his friend Minky. And the moment the door opened in response to his summons the look in his eyes, when he saw who his visitor was, was a cordial welcome. He swung round and dropped his legs over the side of his bunk.

"What's the time?" he demanded.

Minky pointed to the alarm-clock on the gambler's table.

"Nigh one o'clock," he said, with a faint smile.

But Bill ignored the quiet sarcasm.

"Good," he cried. Then he brought his eyes to the other's face. They were literally blazing with suppressed excitement. There was something in them, too, that lifted Minky out of his desperate mood. Somehow they suggested hope to him. Somehow the very presence of this man had a heartening effect.

"Say," cried the gambler in a tone that thrilled with power, "this is Sunday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday," he counted the days off on his lean, muscular fingers. "That's it, sure. Wednesday we send out a 'stage,' an' you're goin' to ship your gold-dust on it. You'll ship it to Spawn City. Meanwhiles you'll buy up all you feel like. Clean the camp out of 'dust,' an' ship it by that stage."

The storekeeper stared. For a moment he thought his friend had taken leave of his senses. A scathing refusal hovered on his lips. But the words never matured. He was looking into the man's burning eyes, and he realized that a big purpose lay behind his words.

"An'," he inquired, with a smile from which he could not quite shut out the irony, "an' who's goin' to—drive it through?"

"I am."

The storekeeper jumped and his eyes widened. He started forward. Then he checked himself. He struggled with a sudden emotion.

"You?" he cried in a sharp whisper. "I—I don't get you."

The gambler leapt to his feet. He strode down the length of the hut and came back again. He finally paused before his bewildered friend.

"No, o' course you don't," he cried hotly; "course you don't. Here, how much 'dust' ken you ship?"

"Maybe we'd need to ship sixty thousand dollars' worth. That is, if we rake around among the boys."

Minky watched his man closely as he spoke. He was still doubting, but he was ready enough to be convinced. He knew it was no use asking too many questions. Wild Bill hated questions. He watched the latter plunge a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and draw out a book. He had no difficulty in recognizing it as the gambler flung it on the table with a force that set the lamp rattling.

"There it is," he cried, with a fierce oath. "Ther's my bank-book. Ther's seventy odd thousand dollars lyin' in the Spawn City bank to my dogasted credit. See?" He glared; then he drew a step nearer and bent forward. "I'm handin' you a check fer your dust," he went on. "I've seventy thousand dollars says I'm a better man than James an' all his rotten scum, an' that I'm goin' to shoot him to hell before the week's out. Now d'ye get me?"

Minky gasped. He had always believed he had long since fathomed the depths of his wild friend. He had always believed that the gambler had no moods which were not well known to him. He had seen him under almost every condition of stress. Yet here was a side to his character he had never even dreamed of, and he was flabbergasted.

For a moment he had no words with which to adequately reply, and he merely shook his head. Instantly the other flew into one of his savage paroxysms by which it was so much his habit to carry through his purpose when obstructed.

"You stand there shakin' your fool head like some mosey old cow," he cried, with a ruddy flush suddenly mounting to his temples. "An' you'll go on shakin' it till ther' ain't 'dust' enuff in your store to bury a louse. You'll go on shakin' it till James' gun rips out your vitals. Gee!" He threw his arms above his head appealing. "Give me a man," he cried. Then he brought one fist crashing down upon the table and shouted his final words: "Say, you'll get right out an' post the notices. I'm buyin' your 'dust,' an' I'm driving the stage."



CHAPTER XXVI

WILD BILL INSPECTS HIS CLAIM

Suffering Creek awoke on the Monday morning laboring under a hideous depression of nightmare. There was no buoyancy in the contemplation of the day's "prospect." It was as though that wholesome joy of life which belongs to the "outdoor" man had suddenly been snatched away, and only the contemplation of a dull round of unprofitable labor had been left for the burdened mind to dwell upon.

It was in this spirit that Joe Brand rubbed his eyes and pulled on his moleskin trousers. It was in this spirit that the miner, White, slouching along to the store for breakfast, saw and greeted him.

"Nuthin' doin' in the night," he said, in something like the tone of a disappointed pessimist.

"No." Joe Brand did not feel a great deal like talking. Besides the nightmare depression that held him he had drunk a good deal of rye whisky overnight.

White stared out across the creek, whither his thoughts were still wandering.

"Maybe we—was scairt some," he observed, with a hollow laugh.

"Maybe."

Joe's manner was discouraging.

"Gettin' breakfast?" the other inquired presently.

"Guess so."

And the rest of the journey to the store was made in morose silence.

Others were already astir when they reached their destination. And at some distance they beheld a small group of men clustering at one point on the veranda. But such was their mood that the matter had no interest whatever for them until they came within hailing distance. Then it was that they were both startled into new life. Then it was that all depression was swept away and active interest leapt. Then it was that sore heads and troubled thoughts gave way before an excitement almost equal to the previous day's, only that it carried with it a hope which the latter had almost killed.

"Say, don't it beat hell?" demanded a burly prospector as they came up, pointing back at the wall of the store where the group was clustering like a swarm of bees.

"Don't what?" inquired Brand, with only partial interest.

"Why, that," cried the man, still pointing. "Ther' it is, all writ up ther'. It's in Minky's writin', too. They're sendin' out a stage, Wednesday. Git a peek at it."

But Brand and his companion did not wait for his final suggestion. They, too, had already joined the cluster, and stood craning on the outskirts of it. Yes, there it was, well chalked out in Minky's bold capitals—an invitation to all his customers to trade all the gold they chose to part with to him at the usual rates, or to ship direct to the bank at Spawn City by a stage that was to leave Suffering Creek at eight o'clock on Wednesday morning, its safe delivery insured, at special rates, by the storekeeper himself.

It was the most astounding notice, under the circumstances, ever seen on Suffering Creek, and as the citizens read it excitement surged to a tremendous pitch.

The man called Van expressed something of the thought in every mind as he turned to Brand, who happened to be at his side.

"Gee!" he cried, with ironical levity. "Old Minky's plum 'bug.' He's waited to 'unload' till James' gang has got the camp held up three miles out. Wal, I ain't shippin'. Guess I'll trade my dust at a discount. It's a sight easier carryin' United States currency."

"But he's guaranteein' delivery at the bank," protested Brand.

"That's what it sez, sure," observed White doubtfully.

"It beats me," said the burly miner perplexedly, again drawn to the notice by the apparent recklessness of its purport. "It beats me sure," he reiterated. Then, after a thoughtful pause, he went back to his original statement as something that expressed the limit of his understanding. "It sure do beat hell."

So it was throughout the morning. And by noon every soul in the camp had seen or heard of Minky's contemplated recklessness. The place was wild with excitement, and, instead of setting out for their various claims for the usual day's work, every man went out to scrape together any "dust" he possessed, and brought it in to trade.

And Minky bought with perfect good-humor, discounting at the recognized tariff, but always with solemn eyes, and a mind still wondering at his overnight interview with Wild Bill. He had obeyed him implicitly, knowing that he was making a liberal profit for himself, whatever the gambler might be risking. All his transactions were guaranteed for him by the small fortune which Bill possessed safely deposited in the Spawn City bank. Well, it was not for him to hesitate.

But his trading was not carried on without comment and questioning. Besides which, there was a heap of rough sarcasm and satire to put up with from his customers. But he put up with it. He could afford to. And to the closest questioning he had always one answer, and no enlightenment could they drag out of him.

"The stage goes, boys," he told them. "An' personal, I ain't scairt a cent's-worth of James an' his gang. Though, to see the way you'se fellers are fallin' over yourselves to make trade with me, I guess I know some folks as is."

The marvel of the whole thing confounded the public mind. But the selfishness of human nature demanded that advantage should be taken of the situation. If Minky, who recently had jibbed at trading gold, had suddenly eased the market, well, it was "up to him." It was his "funeral." The public jumped at the chance of realizing, and so relieving themselves of the cloud of trouble threatening them. James could come along with a whole army of desperadoes, once they had rid themselves of their "dust." They then would no longer have anything to lose except their lives, and those they were always prepared to risk in anything so enterprising as a little honest gun-play.

It was noon when Wild Bill was stirring. And he listened to the news which greeted him on every hand with a calmly non-committal air. Nor, when he found it necessary to comment, did he hesitate to do so in his usual sharp, decided fashion.

"Minky's good grit," he declared on one occasion to a puzzled miner. "I don't guess ther's many folks around as 'ud take his chances. I allow Sufferin' Creek needs to be proud of sech a feller."

And his attitude promptly set up a new feeling in the camp. Minky's heroic pose had not struck the people before. But now the full force of it struck home in a manner which suddenly raised him to a great pinnacle of popularity. The storekeeper of Suffering Creek was standing between the camp and possible financial disaster. It was noble. It was splendid. Yes, they had reason to be very thankful to him.

Bill contemplated the notice long and earnestly when his attention was first called to it. And his narrow eyes lit and twinkled as he read down the carefully chalked capitals. Minky had certainly done it well. But then Minky did most things well. He read it down a second time, and then pushed his way into the store. It was some time before he could reach his friend, but finally he got him to himself as he was poring over a big cash-book. The storekeeper looked up. Nor had he any greeting for his visitor. He was still dazed at the gambler's purpose. And somehow it was the latter who had to speak first.