Part 57 (1/2)

I've done. Sufferin' Creek ain't no place fer a peace-lovin' feller like me, whose doin' all he knows to git thro' life easy an' without breakin' up a natterally delicate const.i.tootion. I'm done. I quit.”

Sandy's face was a study in sneers. Not because he did not agree with the sentiments, but Sunny always irritated him. But Toby only grinned the harder, and for once, while the widower was preparing an adequate retort, contrived to forestall him.

”Seems to me, Sunny, you ain't got a heap o' kick comin' to you,” he said in his slow way. ”I allow you come in this racket because you notioned it. Mebbe you'll say why you did it, else?”

This unexpected challenge from Toby had the effect of diverting the widower's thoughts. He left the consideration of the snub he had been preparing for the loafer for some future time, and waited for the other's reply. But Sunny was roused, and stared angrily round upon the grinning face of his questioner.

”Guess that ain't no affair of yours, anyway,” he snorted. ”I don't stand fer questions from no remittance guy. Gee! things is gittin'

pretty low-down when it comes to that.”

”Maybe a remittance man ain't a first-cla.s.s callin',” said Toby, his grin replaced by a hot flush. ”But if it comes to that I'd say a lazy loafin' b.u.m ain't a heap o' credit noways neither. Howsum, them things don't alter matters any. An' I, fer one, is sick o' your grouse--'cos that's all it is. Say, you're settin' ther' on top o' that hoss like a badly sculptured image that needs a week's bathin', an' talkin' like the no-account fule most fellers guess you to be. Wal, show us you ain't none o' them things, show us you got some sort of a man inside your hide, an' tell us straight why you're out on this doggone trail when you're yearnin' fer your blankets.”

The attack was so unexpected that for once Sunny had no reply ready.

And Sandy positively beamed upon the challenger. And so they rode on for a few moments. Then Toby broke the silence impatiently.

”Wal?” he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the amiability usual to it.

Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was almost refres.h.i.+ng, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the hectoring widower.

”Why for do I do it--an' hate it? Say, that's jest one o' them things a feller can't tell. Y'see, a feller grouses thro' life, a-worritin'

hisself 'cos things don't seem right by his way o' thinkin'. That's natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like, fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin' 'em another. That's natteral, too. Y'see, ther's two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act.

One's his fool head, an' the other--well, I don't rightly know what the other is, 'cep' it's his stummick. Anyways, that's how it is. My head makes me want to go one way, an' my feet gits me goin' another.

So it is with this lay-out. An' I guess, ef you was sure to git to rock-bottom o' things, I'd say we're all doin' this thing 'cos Wild Bill said so.”

He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.

”Guess you're scairt to death o' Wild Bill,” he sneered.

”Wal,” drawled Sunny easily, ”I guess he's a feller wuth bein' scairt of--which is more than you are.”

Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the remittance man.

”Ther's more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny,” he said sincerely. ”There sure is. Bill's a man, whatever else he is. He's sure the best man I've seen on Sufferin' Creek. But you're wrong 'bout him bein' the reason of us worritin' ourselves sick on this yer trail.

It ain't your head which needs re-decoratin', neither. Nor it ain't your stummick, which, I allow, ain't the most wholesome part of you.

Neither it ain't your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an' I allus tho't you was a right smart guy. The reason you're on this doggone trail chasin' glory wot don't never git around, is worryin' along in a buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky's mule, an' he's hoofin' to home at an express slug's gait. That's the reason you're on the trail, an' nothin' else. You're jest a lazy, loafin', dirty b.u.m as 'ud make mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o' boilin' soapsuds if you was set in it, but you was mighty sore seein' pore Zip kicked to death by his rotten luck. An' feelin' that always you kind o' fergot to be tired.

That's why you're on this doggone trail. 'Cos your fool heart ain't as dirty as your carkis.”

And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

THE LUCK OF SCIPIO

Suffering Creek was again in a state of ferment. It seemed as if there were nothing but one excitement after another in the place now. No sooner was the matter of the gold-stage pa.s.sed than a fresh disturbance was upon them. And again the established industry of the place was completely at a standstill. Human nature could no more withstand the infection that was ravaging the camp than keep cool under a political argument. The thing that had happened now was tremendous.

Staid miners, old experienced hands whose lives were wedded to their quest of gold, whose interest in affairs was only taken from a standpoint of their benefit, or otherwise, to the gold interest, were caught in the feverish tide, and sent hurtling along with the rus.h.i.+ng flood. Men whose pulses usually only received a quickening from the news of a fresh gold discovery now found themselves gaping with the wonder of it all, and asking themselves how it was this thing had happened, and if, indeed, it had happened, or were they dreaming.