Читать книгу Wunpost - Coolidge Dane - Страница 1

The heat hung like smoke above Panamint Sink, it surged up against the hills like the waves of a great sea that boiled and seethed in the sun; and the mountains that walled it in gleamed and glistened like polished jet where the light was struck back from their sides. They rose up in solid ramparts, unbelievably steep and combed clean by the sluicings of cloudbursts; and where the black canyons had belched forth their floods a broad wash spread out, writhing and twisting like a snake-track, until at last it was lost in the Sink. For the Sink was the swallower-up of all that came from the hills and whatever it sucked in it buried beneath its sands or poisoned on its alkali flats. Yet the Death Valley trail led across its level floor–thirty miles from Wild Rose Springs to Blackwater and its saloons–and while the heat danced and quivered there was a dust in the north pass and a pack-train swung round the point.

It came on furiously, four burros with flat packs and an old man who ran cursing behind; and as he passed down into the Sink there was another dust in the north and a lone man followed as furiously after him. He was young and tall, a mountain of rude strength, and as he strode off down the trail he brandished a piece of quartz and swung his hat in the air. But the pack-train kept on, a column of swirling dust, a blotch of burro-gray in the heat; and as he emptied his canteen he hurled it to the ground and took after his partner on the run. He could see the twinkling feet, the heave of the white packs, the vindictive form dodging behind; and then his knees weakened, his throbbing brain seemed to burst and he fell down cursing in the trail. But the pack-train went on like a tireless automaton that no human power could stay and when he raised his head it was a streamer of dust, a speck on the far horizon.

He rose up slowly and looked around–at the empty trail, the waterless flats, the barren hills all about–and then he raised his fist, which still clutched the chunk of quartz, and shook it at the pillar of dust. His throat was dry and no words came, to carry the burden of his hate, but as he stumbled along his eyes were on the dust-cloud and he choked out gusty oaths. A demoniac strength took possession of his limbs and once more he broke into a run, the muttered oaths grew louder and gave way to savage shouts and then to delirious babblings; and when he awoke he was groveling in a sand-wash and the sun had sunk in the west.

Once more he rose up and looked down the empty trail and across the waterless flats; and then he raised his eyes to the eastern hills, burning red in the last rays of the sun. They were high, very high, with pines on their summits, and from the wash of a near canyon there lapped out a tongue of green, the promise of water beyond. But his strength had left him now and given place to a feverish weakness–the hills were far away, and he could only sit and wait, and if help did not come he would perish. The solemn twilight turned to night, a star glowed in the east; and then, on the high point above the mouth of the canyon, there leapt up a brighter glow. It was a fire, and as he gazed he saw a form passing before it and feeding the ruddy blaze. He rose up all a-tremble, crushed down a brittle salt-bush and touched it off with a match; and as the resinous wood flared up he snatched out a torch and carried the flame to another bush. It was the signal of the lost, two fires side by side, and he gave a hoarse cry when, from the point of the canyon, a second fire promised help. Then he sank down in the sand, feebly feeding his signal fire, until he was roused by galloping feet.

A half moon was in the sky, lighting the desert with ghostly radiance, and as he scrambled up to look he saw a boy on a white mule, riding in with a canteen held out. Not a word was spoken but as he gurgled down the water he rolled his eyes and gazed at his rescuer. The boy was slim and vigorous, stripped down to sandals and bib overalls; and conspicuously on his hip he carried a heavy pistol which he suddenly hitched to the front.

“That’s enough, now,” he said, “you give me back that canteen.” And when the man refused he snatched it from his lips and whipped out his ready gun. “Don’t you grab me,” he warned, “or I’ll fill you full of lead. You’ve had enough, I tell you!”

For a moment the man faced him as if crouching for a spring; and then his legs failed him and he sank to the ground, at which the boy dropped down and stooped over him.

“Lie still,” he said, “and I’ll bathe your face–I was afraid you were crazy with the heat.”

“That’s all right, kid,” muttered the man, “you’re right on the job. Say, gimme another drink.”

“In a minute–well, just a little one! Now, lie down here in the sand and try to go to sleep.” He moistened a big handkerchief and sopped water on his head and over his heaving chest, and after a few drinks the big frame relaxed and the man lay sleeping like a child. But in his dreams he was still lost and running across the desert, he started and twitched his arms; and then he began to mutter and fumble in the sand until at last he sat up with a jerk.

“Where’s that rock?” he demanded, “by grab, she’s half gold–I’m going to take it and bash out his brains!” He rose to his knees and scrambled about and the boy dropped his hand to his gun. “I’m going to kill him!” raved the man, “the danged old lizard-herder–he went off and left me to die!”

He felt about in the dirt and grabbed up the chunk of quartz, which he had lost in his last delirium.

“Look at that!” he exclaimed thrusting it out to the boy, “the richest danged quartz in the world! I’ve got a ledge of it, kid, enough to make us both rich–and John Calhoun never forgets a friend! No, and he never forgets an enemy–the son of a goat don’t live that can put one over on me! You just wait, Mister Dusty Rhodes!”

“Oh, was that Dusty Rhodes?” the boy piped up eagerly. “I was watching from the point and I thought it was his outfit–but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you. Were you glad when you saw my fire?”

“You bet I was, kid,” the man answered gravely, “I reckon you saved my life. My name is John C. Calhoun.”

He held out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation the boy reached out and took it.

“My name is Billy Campbell and we live in Jail Canyon. My mother will be coming down soon–that is, if she can catch our other mule.”

“Glad to meet her,” replied Calhoun still shaking his hand, “you’re a good kid, Billy; I like you. And when your mother comes, if it’s agreeable to her, I’d like to take you along for my pardner. How would that suit you, now–I’ve just made a big strike and I’ll put you right next to the discovery.”

“I–I’d like it,” stammered the boy hastily drawing his hand away, “only–only I’m afraid my mother won’t let me. You see the boys are all gone, and there’s lots of work to do, and–but I do get awful lonely.”

“I’ll fix it!” announced Calhoun, pausing to take another drink, “and anything I’ve got, it’s yours. You’ve saved my life, Billy, and I never forget a kindness–any more than I forget an injury. Do you see that rock?” he demanded fiercely. “I’m going to follow Dusty Rhodes to the end of the world and bash out his rabbit brains with it! I stopped up at Black Point to look at that big dyke and what do you think he done? He went off and left me and never looked back until he struck them Blackwater saloons! And the first chunk of rock that I knocked off of that ledge would assay a thousand dollars–gold! I ran after that danged fool until I fell down like I was dead, and then I ran after him again, but he never so much as looked back–and all the time I was trying to make him rich and put him next to my strike!”

He stopped and mopped his brow, then took another drink and laughed, deep down in his chest.

“We were supposed to be prospecting,” he said at last. “I threw in with him over at Furnace Creek and we never stopped hiking until we struck the upper water at Wild Rose. How’s that for prospecting–never looked at a rock, except them he threw at his burros–and this morning, when I stopped, he got all bowed up and went off and left me flat. All I had was one canteen and the makings for a smoke, everything else was on the jacks, and the first rock I knocked off was rotten with gold–he’d been going past it for years! Well, I stopped! Nothing to it, when you find a ledge like that you want to put up a notice. All my blanks were in the pack but I located it, all the same–with some rocks and a cigarette paper. It’ll hold, all right, according to law–it’s got my name, and the date, and the name of the claim and how far I claim, both ways–but not a doggoned corner nor a pick-mark on it; and there it is, right by the trail! The first jasper that comes by is going to jump it, sure–don’t you know, boy, I’ve got to get back. What’s the chances for borrowing your mule?”

“What–Tellurium?” faltered the boy going over to the mule and rubbing his nose regretfully, “he’s–he’s a pet; I’d rather not.”

“Aw come on now, I’ll pay you well–I’ll stake you the claim next to mine. That ought to be worth lots of money.”

“Nope,” returned Billy, “here’s a lunch I brought along. I guess I’ll be going home.”

He untied a sack of food from the back of his saddle and mounted as if to go, but the stranger took the mule by the bit.

“Now listen, kid,” he said. “Do you know who I am? Well, I’m John C. Calhoun, the man that discovered the Wunpost Mine and put Southern Nevada on the map. I’m no crazy man; I’m a prospector, as good as the best, if I am playing to a little hard luck. Yes sir, I located the Wunpost and started that first big rush–they came pouring into Keno by the thousands; but when I show ’em this rock there won’t be anybody left–they’ll come across Death Valley like a sandstorm. They’ll come pouring down that wash like a cloudburst in July and the whole doggoned country will be located. Don’t you want to be in on the strike? I’m giving you a chance, and you’ll never have another one like it. All I ask is this mule, and your canteen and the grub, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do–I’ll give you half my claim, and I’ll bet it’s worth millions, and I’ll bring back your mule to boot!”

“Oh, will you?” exclaimed the boy and was scrambling swiftly down when he stopped with one hand on the horn. “Does–does it make any difference if I’m a girl?” he asked with a break in his voice, and John C. Calhoun started back. He looked again and in the desert moonlight the boyish face seemed to soften and change. Tears sprang into the dark eyes and as she hung her head a curl fell across her breast.

“Hell–no!” he burst out hardly knowing what he said, “not as long as I get the mule.”

“Then write out that notice for Wilhelmina Campbell–I guess that’s my legal name.”

“It’s a right pretty name,” conceded Calhoun as he mounted, “but somehow I kinder liked Billy.”