Читать книгу The Saint of the Speedway - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 9

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THE dark shadows of winter had long since passed away from the Alaskan world. The almost interminable nights, the pitifully brief days of storm, of cold, the drear that literally eats into the heart and bones of man, these were left a hazy memory to be quickly forgotten, lost in the new season of hope which comes with a generous rush. It was a world released from months of cruel imprisonment.

Just inland from the mouth of the Lias River, where the broad bosom of its stream was lightly stirred by the gentlest of warming spring breezes, a man was at work stowing his stout-built canoe with its cargo of camp outfit. The vessel was moored against a shelving of granite rock. A stout rawhide held it secure to a boulder of ponderous dimensions, for it was a barren, rocky shore without vegetation of any sort.

It was a fierce coast line, harsh, unyielding and honeycombed with every trap for destruction that the wit of Nature could conceive. Shoals and sunken rocks littered every inlet, and fierce, sweeping currents and cross-currents made the smiling waters a nightmare of chaos. Then, behind everything, lay those merciless reserve forces of sudden wind squalls which howled down the mountain slopes without warning, or reason, and blasted the coast line into a churning of fierce tempest.

Pitiless in its treachery, this long, tattered coast line was for the most part completely shunned by man. Yet here, well within the mouth of the Lias River, a white man was labouring at his craft, indifferent to the terror of his surroundings.

The man was sturdily built. He was broad and stocky and stood something less than six feet in height. For all the warming of the clear, spring day he was clad in the thick clothing with which the men of the North are loth to part until the summer heat makes it intolerable. He was a man of something over thirty, with a strong face that was clean-shaven, or was supposed to be, and with a pair of such pale blue eyes as to be devoid of all expression. They were curious eyes, curious in that they revealed not a glimmer of the mind behind them, curious in that their stony expression was unchanging under any and every emotion.

His boat was moored securely, for the tide was a-surge and running out to sea. An iron bar, jammed in a crevice in the shelving granite, afforded him his second mooring and left him free to pursue his labours at leisure.

Behind him gaped a rift in the granite wall which rose to a height of several hundred feet. It was obviously the night shelter in which his camp had been made, for, immediately before the entrance, the remains of his fire were still smouldering. Maybe, the narrow opening was the entrance to a cavern that widened and heightened, for just such caverns, of every size and shape, abounded in these iron walls.

He worked on till the last of his outfit was securely stowed and the canoe lay deep in the water. Then he passed back to his camp-fire. For a second or two he glanced about him questioningly, then with the aid of a slab of stone he picked up the hot ashes and proceeded to dump them into the river. The final clearing was done with infinite care and patience, and even he resorted to the brushing away of the last signs of his fire with a sweeper made of a tied bundle of brushwood.

It was all a little curious. It was all rather furtive. It seemed so unnecessary in this wilderness of a no-man’s-land. Yet the man paid heed to the obliteration of all signs of his encampment with as much care as though his very life depended upon the complete covering of his tracks. Finally, the brushwood bundle was added to the burden of his canoe and he cast off his moorings. Then, in a moment, he took his place amidships and thrust off with the blade of his double paddle.

The little vessel shot out into the tide with a velocity that was almost threatening. But the man was ready and skilful and its nose swung round under the pressure of the dipping paddle and headed across current making tremendous leeway. Slowly, however, the guiding hand made itself felt, and the bow of the craft headed up into the stream. Later he would have the flood tide to help him, but for a while he must battle with a head stream. That was all right. That was calculated. It was his urgent desire to escape the chances of these dreaded wind squalls which might descend at any moment.

He laboured steadily, creeping up the hither shore to avoid the full race of the tide. He hugged the granite walls of the canyon through which the river cut its way to the ocean. The swirling waters revealed the presence of a chain of sunken rocks through which he was threading his way, and only skill and keenness of vision could hope to save him from sheer disaster. But he pursued his course without hesitation, without a moment of shaken confidence, often dallying with death by a margin of less than inches. And so it went on for nearly an hour.

At the end of that time the change he had awaited took place. The pace of his progress materially increased. The head pressure lessened. It was then for the first time he permitted himself a glance up at the smiling sky in the direction of the distant hills towards which he was heading.

A sigh of satisfaction escaped him. The sign of clemency he was seeking was there in the perfect cloudlessness. The whole breadth of the sky was a brilliant azure. And, furthermore, the critical moment of slack water had arrived. Now he knew that the hill squalls intended to remain quiescent, and he swung his craft clear of the frowning granite cliffs for the deep waters.

The man’s pale eyes were no longer watchful. There was no longer any need. With a great depth of water under his canoe he could drive her leisurely, awaiting the coming flood from the ocean far behind.

Cy Liskard was lounging in the doorway of his cabin. He was smoking contemplatively while his pale eyes gazed out over the gravelly, trickling creek below him. Near by, secured to a tying post, which was the stump of a sapling spruce, two Alaskan ponies were waiting ready for the long trail into Beacon Glory. One was saddled and bridled, the other was carrying a well-laden pack. Both were sturdy, powerful creatures still clad in their long winter coats.

It was a still, warm day, with the air full of the hum of the insect world. The long tails of the horses were swishing with flail-like force to keep the attacking mosquitoes and flies at bay. For the moment the sun was lost behind frothing summer clouds, while below, the dense forests were silent and still with that profound hush which is their prevailing mood.

It was a perfect scene, typical of the greater foothills where Nature permits nothing human to disturb her hush. On every hand hills rose to immense heights, bald of head, but densely clad on their lower slopes with forests of every shade of green. Soft, and gracious, and pleasant to gaze upon, the forests were deep, and dark, and well-nigh illimitable. They were full of preying animal life, and even in the full of daylight the howl of coyote and the harsher bay of prowling timber wolf came echoing down the aisles of leafless trunks.

But Cy Liskard was all unconcerned for Nature’s sounds, for Nature’s moods. He was by no means condemned to a lifelong existence in the world’s dark places. He was there by selection and of deliberate purpose, and his purpose appeared fairly obvious. For there, below him, on the trickling creek, lay the complete, primitive equipment of the gold-seeker’s craft.

But for all his expressionless gaze was upon these things his thought was far away, concerned only with its contemplation of the thing which lay ahead at the end of the further journey upon which he was about to embark. As with all the hardy creatures who seek treasure in the remotenesses of the northern world, the joy of return to the cities of men was a passionate yearning that had no limits.

In the two weeks since his return from the mouth of the Lias River his preparations had been completed, and they were more considerable than might have been supposed to be necessary. This was his home for the time. This was his hunting ground. It was an uncharted, unregistered gold prospect, and as such it was open to invasion or any chance discovery that might completely rob him of any proprietary rights he might claim. So his preparations had been made carefully and in a fashion best calculated to safeguard his interests.

Now with the last detail worked out to his satisfaction he had abandoned himself to a contemplation of the good time which he intended Beacon Glory should yield him. And for all his pale eyes gave no sign, the mind behind them was full of smiling anticipation. He was thinking of the burden of gold on the pack-saddle, and of the balance of credit at Victor Burns’ bank which he knew to be lying there in his name. He was thinking of the wine to be bought at Max Lepende’s “Speedway”; of the orgy he intended to buy there. He was contemplating the glitter of the place and the seductive charm of the women with whom he would dance. Then there was the great game with its never-failing lure, and the thought of this last was bound up with the vision of a young girl, beautiful as a dream, with flaming hair, and eyes whose colour seemed to change with her every mood, now violet, now blue, and sometimes almost sea-green. He had only seen her once, but memory had never let go of the vision. This time he was determined his memories of her should be more intimate, whatever the price to be paid.

He abruptly bestirred himself and a sound escaped him that was like a laugh. But his harsh face and baffling eyes gave no sign. He turned and fastened his cabin door behind him. Then he moved across to the ponies patiently awaiting his pleasure.

He passed round them quickly, feeling the cinche of both. The pack was secure, but his own saddle required tightening up. He raised the legadero of the saddle and pulled mercilessly on the knotted strap. Then he kicked the grass-fed belly of the docile creature to make the tightening closer. Finally, he dropped the legadero to its full length and prepared to mount.

As he did so a blaze of sun shone out from behind the summer cloud-bank and the man looked up with something like a start. For a second he gazed without blinking and his brows depressed as though the sight of the sun offended him. Then he glanced away, and followed its beam where it threw his own shadow absurdly fore-shortened on the ground. In a moment he had raised his foot to the stirrup and swung himself clumsily into the saddle, and, snatching up the rawhide quirt hanging on the horn in front of him, he slashed viciously and needlessly at both horses.

The Occidental Exchange was empty of all customers. It was in the middle of the afternoon and the time just before the mild rush which usually came about closing-time. The place was a relic of the earliest days of Beacon Glory, and, unlike most institutions of its kind, it had remained un-rebuilt as the city grew. But the fact was, Victor Burns had realised the unstable qualities of the first boom, and been content to await developments. So the place, although substantial enough, was small and of no visible consequence for all it was the city’s principal banking house.

Burns was at the counter, which completely cut off all approach to the premises behind. It was well-gridded with substantial iron of a mesh that would have puzzled any gun-man to negotiate. It was a grid which had been designed out of wide experience, for bank hold-ups had been a somewhat favoured pastime in the city’s history.

The banker was talking to his principal teller, a man who looked almost too young for his position, but what he lacked in years he made up in physique. He was a youthful athlete, virile and smilingly self-confident.

“What’s she paid in this morning?” he asked, in the quiet fashion of simple business interest.

The youth smiled.

“Why, a mere two thousand dollars,” he said with a shrug.

“Kind of a quiet night, I guess,” Burns returned, without any responsive smile. Then he folded his arms on the counter, gazing out of the half-open door, which was held back by a chain that could be released from behind the counter. “It’s queer,” he said. “That girl hadn’t more than two red cents back of last fall. And now—why, now she can handle more stuff than I’ve collected in twenty years. And she handles it right, too, that kid. They reckon she’s collected all the luck in Beacon. Well, I’d say she’s collected most of the business brains with it.” He laughed. “And she’s still buying city blocks.”

“And swell gowns,” added the teller with a grin.

“Well, I’d say she wouldn’t be the dandy girl she is if she didn’t. Say——”

Burns broke off. A pair of rough ponies had come to a halt outside. They were in full view through the open doorway.

“Cy Liskard,” he went on after a moment, as he beheld a man fling out of the saddle. Then he nodded at the gold scales. “Guess we’ll need them, sure. He’s a big gold winner.”

To a practical student of human nature like Victor Burns, Cy Liskard was of more than common interest. He had come into contact with him in business, and in business only. But, in consequence, he saw the man in his most interesting aspect. For, in his understanding, a man’s business was the best channel through which to discover the real depth of his character.

He had come to know him as one of the many individual gold men of the remoter places which radiated about Beacon. The first time he had encountered the man was just after winter had closed down, when he drove into Beacon with a curious, mongrel team of three utterly inadequate dogs, hauling a home-made sled which bore a goodly burden of raw gold dust of excellent quality. He had come straight to the bank and weighed in his treasure. The transaction had been made with the customary simple formalities, and the man’s credit had been duly opened. At that time Cy had only revealed himself to the banker as a surly, silent creature who had none of the reckless buoyancy of the men who usually came in to sell their dust.

He had promised, at that time, a further consignment later in the winter when travelling was good, if he were able to purchase a really reliable dog team to replace the disreputable bunch that had at last succeeded in bringing him in.

Victor had ventured a little frank talk on receiving this opening. He had complimented the man on his strike, and the quality of his gold and had inquired if there were other prospectors in his neighbourhood. It was then he realised something of the man with whom he was dealing. The baffling eyes were raised to the banker’s. They looked, or rather stared, coldly and hardly into his, while he negatively shook his head.

“Ther’ ain’t a guy around my lay-out but myself—and ther’ don’t need to be,” he said with a snap of his square jaws.

It was the quiet tone of threat in the final words that enlightened the banker to that which lay behind the man’s mask-like face, and he had made no further effort to interest his customer.

Since that visit there had been another about mid-winter. The man blew into the bank on the swirl of a blizzard that lasted for three days. At that visit his credit had been more, much more than trebled. And now had come a third trip into the city and Burns was deeply intrigued.

The man thrust his way in through the doorway bearing two lashed bundles, one under each arm. They were large and obviously of considerable weight, and his movements were swift almost to hastiness.

It was to the banker’s thinking an unintentional outward sign of his relief at the safe completion of his journey and the final depositing of his treasure.

“Howdo, Mr. Liskard,” he greeted the man, as he laid his bundles on the edge of the counter. “Make a good trip in?” Then he smiled on the two bundles. “You look to be good an’ busy on your patch.” He turned to the teller, who was looking on interestedly. “The scales, Rickards.”

“’Tain’t bad on the trail this time o’ year,” Cy admitted, with more than usual readiness, as he cut the lashings of his burden with a vicious-looking sheath-knife.

The banker watching him noted the details of his powerful body under the thick pea-jacket that was closely buttoned over it. He watched the rough hands, with thumbs stumped short in their top joints, and with the flattest, shortest, ugliest nails he had ever seen, as he ripped the bonds asunder. Then his gaze lifted again to the hard face, with its dirty stubble of beard and whisker, clearly unshaven on his journey, and his shrewd mind was swiftly estimating. He reckoned, by the growth of whisker, the man must have been on the trail at least three weeks, if he had started clean-shaven.

But the two bundles were open and the canvas bags tied at their necks were revealed bulging with their precious contents. In a moment the banker’s interest became absorbed.

“That all dust?” he asked quickly. Then he added: “Some stuff there—sure.”

Cy nodded without speaking. He cut the fastenings and passed the bags through the grid which Burns had flung open.

“Weigh it,” he said.

The man’s voice was harsh and his demand sharp, and the banker passed the bags to the teller at the scales.

No further word passed while the youth manipulated the weights, and Cy watched his every movement with an intensity of concentration that brought his dark brows closely together over his curious eyes.

The gold was emptied into the scale, which only took a portion of one bag. The teller noted the weight and emptied the scale into one of the bank’s own leather bags. Six times the scale was filled to overflowing, while the silent men looked on at the dull, red-yellow of the gold this man had brought. It was dust and nuggets, but mostly nuggets of splendid proportions.

Cy Liskard was leaning on the counter with folded arms, and when the weighing was completed and the teller bent over his task of working out the sum, he drew a deep sigh as though in relief that his task had been completed.

Victor looked up at the sound.

“Kind of makes a boy glad to get it safe into the bank. In these days of hold-ups around Beacon it’s jumpy play toting a bunch of dust around. Say, that’s swell stuff. Good an’ red, like the stuff the boys collected on ‘Eighty Mile’ years back. I haven’t seen that colour anywhere around Beacon till you hit along with your bunch last fall. Are you registered?”

Cy’s gaze was withdrawn from the moving pen of the teller. “Not on your life.”

Burns raised his eyebrows.

“That’s taking a chance,” he demurred. “Aren’t you scared folks’ll jump in on you?”

The man made a sound like a laugh. But his face was unmoving.

“Not a little bit,” he said roughly. “I guess ther’ ain’t a guy in Beacon with the guts to get out to the creek I got staked. If he’d the guts he couldn’t make it. An’ if he made it he’d forgit wakin’ when the daylight come around. No, sir. I ain’t registered, an’ don’t figger to. I ain’t handin’ a map of my strike to any cursed official. I ain’t handin’ the story to a deaf mute. I got my patch, an’ I’ll keep it. I nigh sweated blood to locate it. Register an’ haf the world would get right on my back. I’ll take all the chances, an’ God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it. What’s the tally?”

The teller read out the figures in a tone of wonderment his youth could not conceal.

“Eighty-two thousand dollars and twenty-five cents,” he said, and passed the figures to his chief for verification.

Cy nodded, while the banker examined the paper.

“That’s about my reckoning,” he said. “I’ll be totin’ another bunch along when I’m through with my summer wash. I’ll just draw a dope of ten thousand right away. Here’s the brief.” He passed a cheque across the counter and waited to receive the money.

Burns looked up.

“Yes,” he said, seriously. “That’s the reckoning, sure. I congratulate you. You certainly have a swell claim.”

Cy nodded. “I certainly have,” he agreed shortly.

The teller passed the roll of bills and he and his chief watched their customer bestow it in a hip pocket. As he did so he revealed a heavy gun strapped about his waist, and Victor, at least, realised it was there as no mere ornament. Cy had said, “God help the son of a mule who gets within a mile of it,” and somehow this watching student of human nature realised that “God’s help” would certainly be required in the circumstances. This man was not the sort to stand at trifles.

Cy took his departure without the least ceremony, and it was only the banker’s “So long” that forced common politeness from him. They saw him mount one of the two ponies outside, and they heard the coarse oath with which he urged the weary creature forward. Then came the sound of the heavy slash of a quirt and the horses clattered away.

“A mighty tough proposition,” Burns laughed quietly. “All the gold in that boy’s claim wouldn’t tempt me to try and track him to his hiding-hole. I guess he comes out of the mountains. An’ maybe they’re somewhere across the border—seeing he’s not registered. Well, there it is. Guess it’s no worry of mine. We’re here to collect gold, and I’d say we’ve collected a swell bunch from that boy.”

The teller laughed.

“Guess there’s certainly little else to collect from him, anyway,” he said significantly.