Читать книгу The Treasure of Hidden Valley - Emerson Willis George - Страница 7

IT was seven o’clock the same morning when Roderick left the train at Rawlins.

The raw, cold wind was blowing a terrific gale, the streets were deserted save for a few half drunken stragglers who had been making a night of it, going the rounds of saloons and gambling dens.

A bright-faced lad took charge of the mail bags, threw them into a push cart and started rumbling away up the street. Warfield followed and coming up with him inquired for a hotel.

“Right over there is the Ferris House,” said the young fellow, nodding his head in the direction indicated.

As Roderick approached the hotel he met a grizzled keen-eyed frontiersman who saluted him with a friendly “Hello, partner, you be a stranger in these yere parts, I’m assoomin’.”

“Yes, I just arrived on this morning’s train.”

“Waal, my handle is Jim Rankin. Been prospectin’ the range hereabouts nigh thirty years; uster be sheriff of this yere county when people wuz hostile a plenty – have the best livery stable today in Wyomin’, and always glad to see strangers loiterin’ ‘round and help ‘em to git their bearin’s if I can be of service – you bet I am.”

Thus early had Roderick encountered his father’s old friend. He was delighted, but for the present kept his own counsel. A more fitting time and place must be found to tell the reason of his coming.

“Thank you,” he contented himself with saying as he accepted the frontiersman’s hand of welcome; “glad to meet you, Mr. Rankin.”

“Here, boy,” shouted the latter to an attache of the hotel, “take care of this yere baggage; it belongs to this yere gentleman, a dangnation good friend uv mine. He’ll be back soon fur breakfast. Come on, stranger, let’s go over to Wren’s. I’m as dry as a fish.”

Roderick smiled and turning about, accompanied his new discovery down the street to Wren’s. As they walked along Rankin said: “Here’s my barn and here’s the alley. We’ll turn in here and get into Wren’s by the back door. I never pester the front door. Lots uv fellers git a heap careless with their artillery on front steps that are docile ‘nuff inside.” As they passed through a back gate, Jim Rankin, the typical old-time westerner, pushed his hat well back on his head, fished out of his pocket a pouch of “fine cut” tobacco, and stowing away a large wad in his mouth began masticating rapidly, like an automobile on the low gear. Between vigorous “chaws” he observed that the sun would be up in a “minute” and then the wind would go down. “Strange but true as gospel,” he chuckled – perhaps at his superior knowledge of the West – “when the sun comes up the wind goes down.”

He expectorated a huge pit-tew of tobacco juice at an old ash barrel, wiped his iron gray mustache with the back of his hand, pushed open the back door of the saloon and invited Roderick to enter.

A fire was burning briskly in a round sheet iron stove, and a half dozen wooden-backed chairs were distributed about a round-topped table covered with a green cloth.

Rankin touched a press button, and when a white-aproned waiter responded and stood with a silent look of inquiry on his face the frontiersman cleared his throat and said: “A dry Martini fur me; what pizen do you nominate, partner?”

“Same,” was Roderick’s rather abbreviated reply as he took in the surroundings with a furtive glance.

As soon as the waiter retired to fill the orders, Roderick’s new found friend pulled a coal scuttle close to his chair to serve as a receptacle for his tobacco expectorations, and began: “You see, speakin’ wide open like, I know all these yere fellers – know ‘em like a book. Out at the bar in front is a lot uv booze-fightin’ sheep herders makin’ things gay and genial, mixin’ up with a lot uv discharged railroad men. Been makin’ some big shipments uv sheep east, lately, and when they get tumultuous like with a whole night’s jag of red liquor under their belt, they forgit about the true artickle uv manhood and I cut ‘em out. Hope they’ll get away afore the cattle men come in from over north, otherwise there’ll be plenty uv ugly shootin’. Last year we made seven new graves back there,” and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “seven graves as a result uv a lot uv sheep herders and cow punchers tryin’ to do the perlite thing here at Wren’s parlors the same night They got to shootin’ in a onrestrained fashion and a heap careless. You bet if I wuz sheriff uv this yere county agin I’d see to it that law and order had the long end uv the stick – though I must allow they did git hostile and hang Big Nose George when I wuz in office,” he added after a pause. Then he chuckled quietly to himself, for the moment lost in retrospection.

Presently the waiter brought in the drinks and when he retired Rankin got up very cautiously, tried the door to see if it was tightly shut. Coming back to the table and seating himself he lifted his glass, but before drinking said: “Say, pard, I don’t want to be too presumin’, but what’s your handle?”

Roderick felt that the proper moment had arrived, and went straight to his story.

“My name is Roderick Warfield. I am the son of John Warfield with whom I believe you had some acquaintance a number of years ago. My father is dead, as you doubtless may have heard – died some fourteen years since. He left a letter for me which only recently came into my possession, and in the letter he spoke of three men – Jim Rankin, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest.”

As Roderick was speaking, the frontiersman reverently returned his cocktail to the table.

“Geewhillikins!” he exclaimed, “you the son uv John Warfield! Well, I’ll be jiggered. This just nachurly gits on my wind. Shake, young man.” And Jim Rankin gave Roderick’s hand the clinch of a vise; “I’m a mighty sight more than delighted to see you, and you can count on my advice and help, every day in the week and Sundays thrown in. As you’re a stranger in these parts, I’m assoomin’ you’ll need it a plenty, you bet. Gee, but I’m as glad to see you as I’d be to see a brother. Let’s drink to the memory uv your good father.”

He again lifted his cocktail and Roderick joined him by picking up a side glass of water.

“What?” asked Rankin, “not drinkin’ yer cocktail? What’s squirmin’ in yer vitals?”

“I drink nothing stronger than water,” replied Roderick, looking his father’s old friend squarely in the eyes. Thus early in their association he was glad to settle this issue once and for all time.

“Shake again,” said Rankin, after tossing off his drink at a single swallow and setting down his empty glass, “you sure ‘nuff are the son uv John Warfield. Wuz with him off and on fur many a year and he never drank spirits under no circumstances. You bet I wuz just nachurly so dangnation flabbergasted at meetin’ yer I got plumb locoed and sure did fergit. Boney and Tom and me often speak uv him to this day, and they’ll be dangnation glad to see you.”

“So you’re all three still in the ring?” queried Roderick with a smile.

“Bet yer life,” replied Rankin sturdily. “Why, Tom Sun and Boney Earnest and me have been chums fur nigh on to thirty years. They’re the best scouts that ever hunted in the hills. They’re the chaps who put up my name at the convenshun, got me nominated and then elected me sheriff of this yere county over twenty-five years ago. Gosh but I’m certainly glad to see yer and that’s my attitood.” He smiled broadly.

“Now, Warfield,” he continued, “what yer out here fur? But first, hold on a minute afore yer prognosticate yer answer. Just shove that ‘tother cocktail over this way – dangnation afeerd you’ll spill it; no use letting it go to waste.”

“I’ve come,” replied Roderick, smiling and pushing the cocktail across to Jim Rankin, “to grow up with the country. A young fellow when he gets through college days has got to get out and do something, and some way I’ve drifted out to Wyoming to try and make a start. I have lots of good health, but precious little money.”

Jim Rankin drank the remaining cocktail, pulled his chair a little closer to Roderick’s and spoke in a stage whisper: “You know, I’m assoomin’, what yer father was huntin’ fur when he got hurt?”

Roderick flushed slightly and remained silent for a moment. Was it possible that his father’s old friend, Jim Rankin, knew of the lost mine? Finally he replied: “Well, yes, I know in a general way.”

“Don’t speak too dangnation loud,” enjoined Rankin. “Come on and we’ll hike out uv this and go into one uv the back stalls uv my livery stable. This’s no place to talk about sich things – even walls have ears.”

As they went out again by the back door the morning sun was looking at them from the rim of the eastern hills. Side by side and in silence they walked along the alley to the street, then turned and went into a big barn-like building bearing a sign-board inscribed: “Rankin’s Livery, Feed and Sale Stable.”

Although there was not a soul in sight, Rankin led his new acquaintance far back to the rear of the building. As they passed, a dozen or more horses whinnied, impatient for their morning feed.

Cautiously and without a word being spoken they went into an empty stall in a far corner, and there in a deep whisper, Rankin said: “I know the hull shootin’ match about that ‘ere lost gold mine, but Tom and Boney don’t – they’ve been peevish, good and plenty, two or three different times thinkin’ I know’d suthin’ they didn’t. Not a blamed thing does anybody know but me, you bet I went with your father on three different trips, but we didn’t quite locate the place. I believe it’s on Jack Creek or Cow Creek – maybe furder over – don’t know which, somewhere this side or t’other side of Encampment River. You kin bet big money I kin help a heap – a mighty lot But say nothin’ to nobody – specially to these soopercilious high-steppin’ chaps ‘round here – not a dangnation word – keep it mum. This is a razzle-dazzle just ‘tween you an’ me, young man.”

A silence followed, and the two stood there looking at each other. Presently Roderick said: “I believe I’ll go over to the hotel and get some breakfast; this western air gives one a ravenous appetite.”

Then they both laughed a little as if anxious to relieve an embarrassing situation, and went out to the street together. Jim knew in his heart he had been outclassed; he had shown his whole hand, the other not one single card.

“All right,” Rankin finally said, as if an invitation had been extended to him. “All right, I’ll jist loiter along with yer over to’rd the hotel.”

“At another time,” observed Roderick, “we will talk further about my father’s errand into this western country.”

“That’s the dope that sure ‘nuff suits me, Mr. War-field,” replied Rankin. “Whatever you say goes. Yer can unbosom yerself to me any time to the limit. I’ve got a dozen good mining deals to talk to you about; they’re dandies – a fortune in every one uv ‘em – ’a bird in every shell,’ I might say,” and Rankin laughed heartily at his happy comparison. “Remember one thing, Warfield,” – he stopped and took hold of the lapel of Roderick’s coat, and again spoke in a whisper – “this yere town is full uv ‘hot air’ merchants. Don’t have nuthin’ to do with ‘em – stand pat with me and I’ll see by the great horn spoon the worst you get will be the best uv everythin’ we tackle. Well, so long until after breakfast; I’ll see you later.” And with this Rankin turned and walked briskly back to his stables, whistling a melody from the “Irish Washerwoman” as he went along.

Arriving at his stables he lighted a fire in a drumshaped stove, threw his cud of tobacco away and said: “Hell, I wish this young Warfield had money. I’ve got a copper prospect within three mile uv this here town that’ll knock the spots out uv the Ferris-Haggerty mine all holler. Geewhillikins, it’ll jist nachur-ally make all the best mines in Wyomin’ look like small-sized Shetland ponies at a Perch’ron draft horse show. You bet that’s what I’ve got.”

After feeding his horses he came back to the livery barn office, now quite warm and comfortable, pulled up an old broken backed chair, sat down and lit his pipe. After a few puffs he muttered half aloud: “Expect I’m the only man in Wyomin’ who remembers all the early hist’ry and traditions about that cussed lost mine. I’ve hunted the hills high and low, north, south, east and west, and dang my buttons if I can imagine where them blamed nuggets came from. And my failure used to make me at times a plenty hostile and peevish. John Warfield brought three of ‘em out with him on his last trip. He gave Tom one, Boney one and me one.”

Thrusting his hand into his pocket Rankin produced a native nugget of gold, worn smooth and shiny, and looked at it long in silent meditation. It was a fine specimen of almost pure gold, and was worth perhaps five and twenty dollars.

Presently the old frontiersman brought his fist down with a startling thump on his knee and said aloud: “I’ll be blankety-blanked if I don’t believe in that dangnation fairy story yet. You bet I do, and I’ll help John Warfield’s boy find it, by the great horn spoon I will, if it takes every horse in the stable.”

Jim Rankin relit his pipe, smoked vigorously and thought. The power of silence was strong upon him. The restless spirit of the fortune hunter was again surging in his blood and awaking slumbering half-forgotten hopes – yes, tugging at his heart-strings and calling to him to forsake all else and flee to the hills.

Rankin was a character, a representative of the advance band of sturdy trail-blazers of the West – tender-hearted as a child, generous to a fault, ready to divide his last crust with a friend, yet quick to resent an injury, and stubborn as a bullock when roused to self-defense. There was nothing cunning about him, nothing of greed and avarice, no spirit of envy for the possession of things for the things’ sake. But for him there was real joy in the mad pursuit of things unattainable – a joy that enthralled and enthused him with the fervor of eternal youth. His was the simple life of the hills, loving his few chums and turning his back on all whom he disliked or mistrusted.

Other men and greater men there may be, but it was men of Jim Rankin’s type that could build, and did build, monuments among the wild western waste of heat-blistered plains and gaunt rock-ribbed mountains, men who braved the wilderness and there laid the first foundation stones of a splendid civilization – splendid, yet even now only in its first beginnings, a civilization that means happy homes and smiling fields where before all was barrenness and desolation.