Part 35 (1/2)

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

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

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

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

”An' you was scared to death, like some silly skippin' sheep. You hadn't bowel enough to tell him to go to h.e.l.l. You felt like handin'

him any other old thing you'd got--'Here, go on, help yourself.'” He flung out his arms to ill.u.s.trate his meaning. ”'You got my wife; here's my kiddies. If you need anything else, you can sure get my claim. Guess my shack'll make you an elegant summer palace.' Gee!”

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

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

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

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

”Here, hold on,” cried Scipio, turning, with his pale eyes mildly blazing. ”You're wrong, all wrong. I ain't doing it because I'm scared of James. I don't care nothing for his threats. I'm scared of no man--not even you. See? My Jessie's callin' for her gal--my Jessie! Do you know what that means to me? No, of course you don't. You don't know my Jessie. You ain't never loved a wife like my Jessie. You ain't never felt what a kiddie is to its mother. You can't see as I can see.

This little gal,” he went on, tenderly laying an arm about Vada's small shoulders, ”will, maybe, save my pore Jessie. That pore gal has. .h.i.t the wrong trail, an'--an' I'd sacrifice everything in the world to save her. I'd--I'd sell my own soul. I'd give it to--save her.”

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

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

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

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

”Zip,” he said in a tone that was strangely thrilling, ”maybe I didn't get all you felt--all you got in that tow-head of yours. That bein'

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

Scipio took a breath that was something like a gasp.

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

”I'm not promisin' that,” said Bill quickly. ”That's sure up to you.

But I give it you right here, I'll--s.h.i.+ft this doggone skunk out of your way.”

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

”You've allus been friendly to me, Bill, so--”

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

CHAPTER XIX