Part 19 (1/2)

”Now,” said Nick, ”we'll pile rocks across the mouth of the gulch, and then they'll be safe enough, for no coyote is going to jump down from the top of these walls.”

Tom made no answer. He was standing with his hands in his pockets looking at the two b.l.o.o.d.y, mangled corpses.

”Nick, don't you-all think we'd better say something over these fellows, too? It ain't the square deal to put 'em away without a word, even if they were the worst scrubs in creation. You-all better say something, Nick, like you did before.”

Tom took off his hat, without even a glance at his companion, and bent his head. Ellhorn also doffed his sombrero and bent forward in reverent att.i.tude, ready to begin.

”Good Lord,” he said, and then he stopped and hesitated so long that Tuttle looked up to see what was the matter. ”Go on, Nick,” he urged in a low tone.

”Good Lord, Ye'd better do as Ye think best about lettin' 'em fry in their own fat--so long. They were scrubs, that's straight, but they're dead now, and can't do any more harm. Good Lord, we hope--Ye'll see Your way to have mercy on their souls. Amen.”

They began piling rocks across the mouth of the narrow chasm, and worked for some moments in silence. Nick glanced inquiringly at Tom several times, and finally he spoke:

”Say, Tommy, that was all right, I guess, wasn't it?”

”Nick, I sure reckon Emerson would say it was.” And Ellhorn knew that his companion could give no stronger a.s.sent.

They built a wall high enough to keep the coyotes away from the two bodies, and then followed the trail upon the canyon wall and across the mountain side to the spring. There they found Bill Frank's camping outfit and the few things that Jim and Haney had transferred from the canyon below. They found, also, the pan and the hand mortar, rusty and battered by the storms of many years, with which d.i.c.k Winters had slowly and with infinite toil beaten and washed out the gold he was never to enjoy. After an hour's search they found the store of nuggets where Bill Frank had hidden them. Haney and Jim had never guessed how near they had come to the wealth for which they were searching.

The two men looked over the contents of pail, coffee pot, oven and cans and talked of the long, wearisome, lonely labor d.i.c.k Winters must have had, carrying the sacks of ore on his back, from his mine down the canyon, up the trail, and across the mountain side, to this little spring, where he had then to pound it up in his mortar and wash out the gold in his pan.

”It's no wonder the desert did him up,” said Nick. ”He had no strength left to fight it with. It's likely he was luny before he started.”

”Nick, you don't reckon there's a cuss on this gold, do you? Just see how many people it has killed. d.i.c.k Winters and Bill Frank and Jim and Haney, besides all the prospectors that have died huntin' for it.

You-all don't reckon anything will happen to us, or to Emerson, if we take it?”

The two big Texans, who had never quailed before man or gun, looked at each other, their faces full of sudden seriousness, and there was just a shadow of fear in both blue eyes and black. The silence and the vastness of an empty earth and sky can bring up undreamed of things from the bottom of men's minds. Ellhorn's more skeptical nature was the first to gird itself against the suggestion.

”No, Tommy, I don't reckon anything of the sort. Bill Frank gave it to us, and d.i.c.k Winters gave it to him, or, anyway, wanted him to find it and have it, and I reckon d.i.c.k Winters worked hard enough to get it to have a better right to it than G.o.d himself. It's sure ours, Tom, and I reckon there won't be any cuss on it as long as we can shoot straighter than anybody who wants to hold us up for it.”

CHAPTER XVII

Emerson Mead heard the story which Ellhorn and Tuttle told and looked at the heap of yellow nuggets without enthusiasm. His face was gloomy and there was a sadness in his eyes that neither of his friends had ever seen there before. He demurred over their proposal that he should share with them, saying that he would rather they should have it all and that he had no use for so much money. When they insisted and Tom said, with a little catch in his voice, ”Emerson, we can't enjoy any of it if you-all don't have your share,” he replied, ”Well, all right, boys. I reckon no man ever had better friends than you are.”

Judge Harlin was still at the ranch, and while he and Nick and Tom were excitedly weighing the nuggets, Mead slipped out to the corral, saddled a horse and galloped across the foothills. Tuttle watched him riding away with concern in his big, round face.

”Judge,” he said, ”what's the matter with Emerson? Is he sick?”

”I guess not. He didn't say anything about it.”

”Did you bring him any bad news?”

”Not that I know of.”

”Have them fellows over in Plumas been hatchin' out any more deviltry?”

”N-no, I think not. Oh, yes, I did hear that Colonel Whittaker and Daniels and Halliday were going over to the White Sands to hunt for Will Whittaker's body. I told Emerson so. That's the only thing I know of that would be likely to disturb him.”

A quick glance of intelligence flashed between Tuttle's eyes and Ellhorn's. Each was recalling Mead's promise to surrender if Will Whittaker's body could be produced. Tuttle stood silent, with his hands in his pockets, looking across the foothills to where Mead's figure was disappearing against the horizon. Then without a word he walked to the corral, saddled a horse, and went off on the gallop in the same direction.