Читать книгу Dead Man's Gold - J. Allan Dunn - Страница 10

IN COLDER blood, looking at the samples of ore and placer colours, without the glamour imparted to them by the dramatic story of the dying man, without the magnetism inspired by his implicit belief in what he was telling. Stone, returning to the cabin with Healy and Larkin after the burial of their comrade, was inclined to discount their chances of ever becoming millionaires. Yet the details imparted to him were explicit enough, holding far more promise than what he imagined Lyman had told Healy, which appeared to be nothing more than the general location of the placer and the glittering wall of quartz. The simile of the old prospector was ever vivid in Stone's imagination, the cliff of milky-white rock stretching away up until it merged with the blackness, the gold shining like stars in the Milky Way until that, too, faded gradually in the murk. It was hard to forget a picture like that, but Stone had heard many miners' tales and seen many gleaming specimens. He realized how such things were coloured and enlarged by the hope of the seeker, ever vivid until the prospector dies. He had heard stories of Lost Golcondas galore, of mountains of gold, of gold pulled up at grass roots, and there was ​always some obstacle that kept the thing a myth. Lost trail, a missing map or, as in this case, hostile Indians.

As he had told Healy, Stone, in his many wanderings, had lived in New Mexico as a health-seeking tourist, before all his getatable money had flown. He had been interested in the strange rock-dwellings, the pueblos on the summit of the mesas; his active and cultivated mind had taken interest in their customs. He knew from what Lyman had whispered to him with his last breath that the treasure lay somewhere amid such surroundings, close to an Indian reservation, guarded by their savage resentment of interference on their lands and disdainful uncertainty regarding the exact boundaries.

That meant either Arizona or New Mexico. There were Apache reservations in both states, Navajos in New Mexico, and Stone knew that the Apaches were either Hualapais (Apache-Yumas) or Yavapais (Apache-Navajos). Most of them were an offshoot of the Navajos.

Some of the things that Lyman had gasped made him feel certain that this wall of gold, this Madre d'Oro, was in one of the honeycombed interiors of the lava cliffs where the Moquis, the Zunis, or some of the tribes of the Pueblos lived. Between them and the Apaches was everlasting warfare. Stone held an idea that the golden cliff was in some way connected with the mysterious, almost prehistoric religions of these tribes. Such a connection would increase the protection thrown about it, even by the Apaches, ​who might share the superstitions of the original owners as to penalties concerning its disturbance. Lyman and his two partners, known only to the Foursome as "Dave" and "Lem," were not the type to be easily scared off. And, of late years, the country had all been more or less settled. There were few spots, not absolutely in the Great American Desert, where the hardy colonist had not started his alfalfa patch. Even the desert had been invaded and mighty reservoirs built to catch the storm waters of its fastnesses. Was the danger still so real in nineteen hundred and nineteen as it had been in 'seventy-nine?

To his surprise, Healy, to whom Lyman had vouchsafed the least of the information, seemed the most imbued with the certainty of the treasure-trove and its conditions being as Lyman had stated them. And Healy was not of an enthusiastic nature. Lefty Larkin, admittedly knowing little of the West as yet, imagining much of it to be thick-set with cactus, Gila monsters, grizzly bears, rattlesnakes, and scalping Indians, had little to say. The gleam of gold was in his eyes and he kept his thoughts to himself.

The friction between Stone and Healy was still existent. Stone had insisted upon burying the Bible and the letters from the "war-bag" with Lyman, unread. He had quarrelled with Healy over the disposition of a photograph that Healy had found among the correspondence, the picture of a girl, more than just pretty, but with her youthful beauty ​marred by a certain pertness, a suggestion of sulkiness in the lower lips formed for kisses as it was. It was signed "your loving wife Margaret" in an unformed hand.

Healy had looked at it appraisingly while Stone was going swiftly through a jumble of duplicates of location papers, old stock in forgotten, worthless mines, and a collection of newspaper clippings on every subject, from recipes for making jelly to new methods for treating refractory ores. Lefty was poring over the Bible. He had discovered, seemingly for the first time, the Song of Solomon, and read avidly, his tongue in one cheek, clucking from time to time as a rounded phrase caught his fancy.

"Some po'try, I call that stuff," he said. "Listen to this, will yer?

'Thy lips are loike a thread of scarlet.

Hand thy mouf his cumly.

Thy temples are loike a piece hof pomegranate

Behind thy veil."

Stone turned to the Cockney, smiling, marvelling, but sympathetic at the apt expression in the deep-set eyes. A vein of gold in that rock, after all, he thought to himself.

"I knew a Jew girl once," said Lefty, reminiscently. "’Arf Sheeny, 'arf French, she was. That hits 'er orf to a fare-you-well. But they all get fat before they're thirty."

"Here's a pretty girl for you," said Healy, passing ​across the faded photograph. "And here's some live love-letters for you. If Wat Lyman's girl is as tasty as her mother, she'll be worth looking for."

Lefty took the picture and Stone intercepted the letters, retying them with their ribbon. When Lefty passed him the photograph in turn he looked at it closely, recognizing the possible value it might have as an aid to identity, but did not give it to Healy when the latter held out his hand for it.

"We'll bury these with Lyman," he said. Healy flashed up. Since the revelation of the treasure he had lost a good deal of his calm suavity. As Lefty put it, he was "quick on the trigger."

"It seems to me you're trying to run things altogether too much, Stone," snapped Healy. "That stuff is community property. There may be important dope in these letters about the location of the mine. And we'll need the picture."

"You said they were love-letters," said Stone, calmly. "If you haven't read them through, so much the better. Lyman told us all he meant to tell us. This is his private property, the more to be respected because he is dead, after making us his heirs. The girl may not be like her mother at all, if we ever trace her. She is likely to have something of her father stamped on her face, I fancy. Anyway, this picture goes where I think Lyman would like to have it, seeing he's kept it all these years; over his heart. The letters go in the coffin, too. How about it, Lefty?" Somehow he felt he could count ​on Lefty after he had heard him read the Song of Solomon aloud. And he was not mistaken.

"Two to one, Healy," said Stone, smiling, after Lefty had cast his vote.

Healy glared.

"If you're going to spoil our chances for a lot of damned sentiment——" he demurred.

"It was sentiment from Lyman that gave us any chance at all," replied Stone. "Anyway, the stuff goes in the coffin."

After the burial Healy recovered all his old smoothness of manner. They had found no trace of Lowe save the information that he had ridden in alone from Rhyolite as the stage's only passenger and had inquired as to the establishment of an assayer at Skyfields. He had come from Tonopah, he said.

"Well," commenced Healy, after their first meal in the cabin, following the burial. "Our interests are pooled. Suppose we pool our information? Then we can arrange for the sale of the 'Foursome' and plan the trip?"

"It's a go," said Lefty before Stone could say anything. "Wat Lyman started with you, Healy. Sling us the dope."

Healy's lips parted slightly, showing his teeth.

"Suppose we start with the big end of it first," he suggested, affably. "Then we'll know what we're going after. What's the big secret of that Madre d'Oro, Stone?"

Stone grinned.

"You proposed the game, Healy. It's your lead."

​Lefty laughed. Healy flushed a very little, lost poise, and glanced from one to the other of them suspiciously.

"We'd be fine jugginses, we'd be," said Lefty, "to give you all the meat jest becoz you've got a string tied to it."

"Don't forget I have got a string tied to it," said Healy. "And I'm going to make that string stronger before I come through with any information. I may not be able to go far without you, but you don't want to lose sight of the fact that you can't even start without me. There's going to be a hard-and-fast agreement drawn up between us three that our mutual information is to be equally applied for a final division of all and any profits into three equal parts, less expenses. And it won't be drawn up by any catch-as-catch-can lawyer, at that. We'll get one in Los Angeles to fix it."

"That is perfectly agreeable to me," said Stone. "Fair enough, eh, Lefty?"

Larkin nodded. "Suits me," he said.

"But why Los Angeles?" asked Stone. "There are good mining attorneys nearer than that."

"Because we have to connect with the Southern Pacific to make our way to the location," said Healy. "I'll tell you that much. Old Lyman and his partners trailed it in, hoof and shoe, with their burros. It would take us too much time, and cost more in the end than railroad fare, to go at it that way. We'll cut in fairly dose to the end of his trail. Never mind where just yet."

​"Where's the railway fare comin' from?" asked Lefty. "And the houtfit? I got enough from Lyman to tip it orf to me this hain't going to be any bloomin' picnic. We'll need guns an' grub an' burros, outside of what stuff we got now. Stone just spilled his last check on the funeral, an' then some. We're broke and in debt to the gravedigger."

"We ought to be able to sell the 'Foursome' for something," said Stone. "Everyone knows the chances of finding gold under the porphyry are good. We've done some work. The claim's worth something."

"Not when you go to sell it," said Healy. "Not much. It's always a question of, 'if you believed in the claim you wouldn't want to get rid of it.' We've got no good excuse. We've got to keep our mouths sewed about this Mother-of-Gold of ours. I can borrow some money once we get to Los Angeles."

"I'm going out right nowt o see if we can sell the claim," said Stone. "For enough for fares and feeding to Los Angeles, at least."

"I'll go with you," volunteered Lefty. Healy looked at them curiously, shrugged his shoulders, and applied himself to a game of solitaire. Stone noticed the fluent way in which the cards left his long, supple fingers. So, it seemed, did Lefty.

"I'd 'ate to 'ave to play cards against that shark," he said as they walked down toward the centre of the town. "Lyman 'ad 'im sized up right. Stone. That's w'y 'e gave 'im the short hend of it. That's w'y 'e gave you the big hend. Lyman figured you ​was the straightest of the three of us. 'E was some wise gazabo, was Lyman. You an' me want to keep our heyes peeled for Healy, start to finish. 'E's the kind of bloke w'ot 'ud dig up the body of his farver if he thought the fillings in the teeth was worth it. 'E's so crooked, 'is shadder looks like a corkscrew. I've bin called a crook myself, an' served time for it. But I never threw a fight or snitched on a pal. I'm tellin' you that straight, Stone, between man and man."

He stopped on the path, looked Stone fairly in the eyes, and held out his hand. Stone gripped it.

They sold the claim before evening, for little more than would take them to Los Angeles after settling up in Skyfields, and arranged for seats on the stage in the morning. They would reach Los Angeles practically penniless unless Healy's loan materialized. Stone determined to try and attempt a monthly advance by wire. He had never done so before but he was not inclined to bank on Healy or be beholden to him. He even suspected some trick but, until Healy chose to reveal the location where Lefty would be able to pick up the placer, they were obliged to follow his lead. It was tacitly understood that each was to hug his knowledge until the time came to display it. Each was dependent upon each. Stone could not find the Madre d'Oro until Lefty found the dry wash. And it was tacitly understood that no one should be expected to give out information ahead. Lefty was sandwiched between them. The wall of gold was plainly the great prize; Healy held the ​thread that was to lead them to the beginning of the quest.

Stone began to see clearly the method in Lyman's apparent madness. He realized the truth in the old prospector's saying that he knew what gold did to men. Stone was conscious of subtle changes in himself since the specimens and the dust from the quills had been shown. And he felt that the change had not been for the better. He could see its counterpart in Lefty and in Healy. He was conscious of a suspicion toward all other men, of a desire to hoard jealously his own share of the secret, to speculate on how much the total wealth would be, how much the placer might pan out, to wonder if there was really enough for the four of them—including the girl Madge, if they found her.

Lyman had talked of millions and Stone found himself thinking in terms of millions. Admitting the chance to own one, sums that had hitherto seemed stupendous, beyond sober thought, appeared perfectly relevant. He would know how to spend them far better than Lefty, or even Healy. And in the prospect of spending, to one of Stone's temperament and experience, many vistas opened.

He found himself getting narrow, jaundiced, tinged with the hue of the metal, hardening a little in anticipation; like another Midas, every energy bent upon discovery. And he saw how Lyman had foreseen all this, and far more. Three men, each with a full possession of the secret, might easily quarrel. Their natures were widely variant. Men who have ​shared hundreds without a selfish thought will kill for millions. It would be easy, in such wild places as the treasure lay, for three men to go in and only one to come out. Explanations would not be asked for. The desert took toll. The simplest story would pass muster best.

Water might be lacking, food down to the last ration. One would be weaker than the rest. Temptation would walk beside them, step for step. A moment of delirium or passion, induced by circumstance, and a bullet would leave enough for the survivor to conserve life, leave him the heir to the murdered. Such things had happened. Gold was the devil's lure.

But Lyman had foreseen. Each must look after the care of the other. Healy and Stone must play fair with Lefty, must preserve his life at all hazards, or lose everything. With the placer found, the greater prize was still in Stone's keeping. Healy and Lefty must play guardians to him at whatever cost. Each share of the secret, as it was progressively divulged, left its owner of less consequence. That Lyman had set Healy as the first thus to lose rank, showed, Stone thought, that he had trusted him the least. And, inversely, that he trusted Stone the most. It was to Stone that the dead man had really looked to see that the search for his daughter was seriously inducted and her half of all the treasure kept intact. It was this trust that Stone proceeded to make sacred in his mind as an offset to the hardening influence of the lust of gold.

​Their way lay south across the Nevada line to Crucero on the San Pedro, Los Angeles and Salt Lake, thence to the City of the Angels. Immediate connections were not good and Stone announced his intention of going north to Tonopah to try and trace Lowe while the trail might be warm. And this decision he stuck to. He went alone, leaving Lefty and Healy to stay overnight in Rhyolite, joining them the next day on the train.

Lowe's trail was warm and malodorous. He had left Tonopah under strong suspicion of having falsified analyses of ore to suit certain wildcat promoters. There were no regrets expressed concerning his death. He had established an assay office two years before and there had been no evidence that he was encumbered with a wife or daughter, having lived alone at the same hotel the whole time. But Stone felt satisfied that he had done the right thing in making this effort.

At Rhyolite Lefty swung aboard the smoker. Stone meeting him on the platform.

"Healy's in the depot," said the Cockney. "’E didn't seem to want me nosin' round but I'm pritty certain he's waitin' for a telegram. Pritty sure he's sent more 'n one. I saw some blanks in his room. And I'll bet you the drinks 'e's wired to Los Hangeles."

"Looks like an easy win for you, Lefty," answered Stone, as Healy hurried down the platform, crushing a yellow paper into his pocket. "But I couldn't pay if I lost. California voted dry."

​"Now, hain't that too bad?" retorted Lefty with a wink. "W'ot 'll a pore feller do for snake bite in the desert? Jest as long as there's them that wants booze, there's goin' to be them that makes it. And, so long as it's made, it can be got. I hain't goin' to worry. Listen," he whispered, as Healy grabbed for the moving train a car ahead of theirs. "I can lift that telegram 'thout 'is ever knowin' it. And put it back the same. Wot price that?"

"It is probably something about that money he said he was going to get in Los Angeles," said Stone. "We'll play fair as long as he does, Lefty."

"Hany spondulicks that guy puts up has strings and glue on it," muttered Lefty as Healy came through the car toward the rear platform where the others still stood as the train moved out. Stone smiled at Lefty's modernized phrasing of the old saw, "Beware of Greeks bringing gifts."

But Stone settled firmly in his mind the intention to supplement Healy's partnership agreement with a deed that would tie the three of them, their heirs and assignees, to deliver a fair half of their mutual holdings and proceeds to the missing daughter of Wat Lyman, and to place such sums in trust until every effort had been exhausted in the search for her. Stone knew a man, a member of a firm of attorneys in Los Angeles, and a personal friend of his from old-time affiliations, who might be depended upon to make such a document. All the way to Los Angeles he hammered his arguments home, winning a reluctant victory at last.