Part 20 (1/2)
”Sure, Dunnigan'll not come into th' woods. An' phy shud he? Wid money in th' bank, an' her majesty's--Oi mane, his nibs's pension comin' in ivery month, an' his insides broke in to Hod Burrage's whisky--phwat more c'd a man want?”
”The boss thinks maybe he'll come. Anyway, I am going after him.”
”Ye shud av towld um to go to h.e.l.l! Wor-rkin' a man wid a foot loike that is croolty to animals; av ye was a ha.r.s.e he'd be arrested.”
”He didn't tell me to go. He is crowded for men; the grub is rotten; something has to be done; and he asked me if I thought I could make it.”
Irish pulled thoughtfully at his pipe, and slowly his brows drew together in a frown.
”He said ye c'd make ut in two days?” he inquired.
”Yes. The tote-road is well broken, and forty miles traveling light with that rangy team is not such an awful pull.”
”An' he towld ye phwere to camp. It'll be Melton's awld No. 8, where ye camped comin' in?”
”Yes.”
Fallon nodded thoughtfully, and Bill wondered what was pa.s.sing in his mind. For a long time he was silent, and the injured man responded to the hearty greetings and inquiries of the men returning from the grub-shack.
When these later had disposed themselves for the evening, the Irishman hunched his chair closer to the bunk upon which Bill was sitting.
”At Melton's No. 8, Oi moind, th' shtables is a good bit av a way from th' rist av th' buildin's, an' hid from soight be a knowl av ground.”
”I don't remember the stables, but they can't be very far; they are in the clearing, and Moncrossen had the blacksmith make me a crutch.”
”A crutch, is ut? A crutch! Well, a man ud play h.e.l.l makin' foorty moiles on a crutch in th' winter--no mather how good th' thrail was broke.”
”Forty miles! Look here, Irish--what are you talking about? I thought your bottle had been empty for a week.”
”Impty ut is--which me head ain't. Listen: S'posin'--just s'posin', moind yez Oi'm sayin'--a man wid a b.u.m leg was camped in th' shack av Melton's No. 8, an' th' ha.r.s.es in th' shtable. An' s'posin' some one shnaked in in th' noight an' stole th' ha.r.s.es on um an' druv 'em to Hilarity, an' waited f'r th' boss to sind f'r 'em. An' s'posin' a wake wint by befoor th' boss c'd sind a man down to look up th' team he'd sint f'r a cook, wid orders to hurry back. An' s'posin' he found th'
b.u.m-legged driver froze shtiff on th' tote-road phwere he'd made out to hobble a few moiles on his crutch--phwat thin? Why, th' man was a greener, an', not knowin' how to handle th' team, they'd got away from um.”
Bill followed the Irishman closely, and knew that he spoke with a purpose. His eyes narrowed, and his lips bent into that cold smile which the men of the camp had come to know was no smile at all, but a battle alarm, the more ominous for its silence.
”Do you mean that it is a frame-up? That Moncrossen----” Fallon silenced him with a motion.
”Whist!” he whispered and glanced sharply about him, then leaned over and dug a stiffened forefinger into the other's ribs. ”Oi don't mane nothin'. But 'tis about toime they begun bankin' their bird's-eye.
”Creed et dinner in camp, but he never et supper. Him an' th' boss made medicine in th' office _afther_ th' boss talked to ye. Put two an' two togither an' Oi've towld ye nothin' at all; but av ye fergit ut Oi'll see that phwat th' wolves lave av th' b.u.m-legged teamster is buried proper an' buried deep, an' Oi'll blow in tin dollars f'r a ma.s.s f'r his sowl.
”Av ye _don't_ fergit ut, ye moight fetch back a gallon jug av Hod Burrage's embalmin' flooid, f'r me inwards is that petrified be th'
grub we've been havin' av late, they moight mishtake ut f'r rale liquor. Good-by, an' good luck--'tis toime to roll in.”
CHAPTER XX
A FIRE IN THE NIGHT