Читать книгу Bonanza (A Story of the Gold Trail) - William MacLeod Raine - Страница 11

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Through the throngs that crowded, not only the dilapidated sidewalks, but also the street itself, Scot guided his brother deftly toward the hotel. The whole appearance of the place was still higgledy-piggledy. Men lived in tents, in dugouts, in prospect holes, in shacks built of dry-goods boxes, canvas sacks, and brush. They cooked and ate as best they could, while they went about their business of prospecting or buying and selling “feet”^[4] in what by courtesy were called mines.

[4] In Virginia City mining interests were then sold by feet, and not by shares.—W. M. R.

“We’ll cut across this lot,” the gambler suggested.

A mud-stained wagon with a dirty canvas top had been unhitched close to the street. Two bony and dejected horses were tied to the wheels eating some brush that they were trying to persuade themselves was hay.

Hugh commented on the broomtails. “So thin they won’t throw a shadow.”

A moment later he was sorry, for as they rounded the wagon he saw a woman and child crouched over a camp fire. They were cooking a stew. A man sat on the wagon tongue smoking. He looked at the passing men out of sullen, clouded eyes.

A voice from the sidewalk drifted to the brothers. “Trouble, looks like. Sam Dutch has got Red Mike backed up against the bar of the Mile High, and he’s tryin’ to devil him into drawing a six-shooter.”

On the heels of the words there came the sound of a shot, followed by a second. A swift trampling of many feet, and the side door of the Mile High burst open. Men poured out of it as seeds are squirted from a pressed lemon. They dived in every direction to escape. After them came a single man, bare-headed, a revolver in his hand. He looked wildly round, then fled to the shelter of the wagon for safety. A huge fellow, bellowing like a bull, tore out of the saloon in pursuit.

An ironclad rule of the old fighting West is that every quarrel is a private one. No outsider has any right to interfere. Under ordinary conditions, the first impulse of the McClintocks would have been to dive for cover. The West considers it no reflection on a man’s courage for him to sing small when guns are out to settle a difference of opinion which is no concern of his.

The McClintocks, as though moved by the same spring, wheeled in their tracks and ran back to the wagon. The man on the tongue was disappearing into the bed through the opening in the canvas. But the woman and the little girl, terror-stricken, stood spellbound beside the fire. Pursued and pursuer were charging straight toward them. A bullet struck with a metallic clang the iron pot in the live coals. The child screamed.

Roughly the woman and the little girl went down at the same instant, flung to the ground by the impact of flying bodies. They heard more shots, but they knew nothing of what was going on. For the McClintock brothers were crouched above them, shielding them from the danger of wild bullets. They did not see the red-headed man stumble and pitch forward, nor did they see the big ruffian at his heels fling shot after shot into his prostrate form.

Hugh released his weight from the child, and lifted her to her feet in such a way that her face was turned from the tragedy.

“Run right along into the wagon where yore dad is, li’l girl, and don’t turn yore head,” he said, and his voice was very gentle.

She moved forward, whimpering as she went, and climbed to the wagon tongue. But, just as she was about to vanish inside, curiosity or some other impulse swung round her black and shaggy little head. Big dark eyes fastened on Hugh, then moved past him to the awful thing she was to see in her dreams for many a night. A man, red-haired and red-bearded, lay face up on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at the blue sky. A second man straddled the body with brutal triumph, a big slouchy fellow with coarse tawny hair reaching to his neck, and sandy whiskers tied under his chin. He wore a brown Peruvian hat, a blue army overcoat with a cape, and a woollen shirt. From his bootleg a horn-handled bowie knife projected.

“Wanted to be chief,^[5] eh?” the murderer jeered in a heavy overbearing voice. “There’ll be only one chief in Virginia while Sam Dutch is here. If any one else wants the job, he’ll gets his like Red Mike did.” He shuffled away, Spanish spurs jingling, slouching and slow of movement. His gestures were heavy, except when shooting. No bad man in Washoe was quicker on the draw.

[5] It was a matter of pride among the desperadoes of Nevada in early days to be cock of the walk. Many a “bad man” died with his boots on because he aspired to be “chief” among his fellows. So long as these ruffians killed each other, the community paid little attention to their murders. When good citizens fell victim, a sentiment was created which eventually resulted in the supremacy of law.—W. M. R.

A faint trickle of smoke still issued from the barrel of his revolver as he thrust it back into its scabbard, where it could be seen beneath the flapping coat tails. He disappeared into the Mile High and proceeded to down half-a-dozen gin slings at the expense of friends who did not dare withhold this tribute of admiration lest he make one of them number eleven on his list. An hour later, Scot McClintock saw him there, in drunken slumber lying on a billiard table, the brute primordial, first among the bad men of the lawless camp because he was its most deadly ruffian. There were those who would have liked to make an end of him as he lay soddenly asleep, but he was so quick and terrible that their fear was greater than the lust to kill.

Scot helped from the ground the woman he had thrown. She looked at him, her breast rising and falling deep, fear still quick in the soft brown eyes. Her cheeks were white as the snow on Mt. Davidson.

“Madam, I’m sorry I was rough,” Scot said, and gave her the most gallant bow in Washoe. “But you were in the line of fire. I couldn’t take chances.”

Emotion shook her. A faint colour crept timidly into her face. She said, in a voice hardly audible: “You saved my life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” the man answered, smiling.

Something eager, beautiful, made of the woman’s eyes soft stars of night. “I’ll never forget—never,” she promised, with a strangled sob.

There was a low jangling laugh at her shoulder. “Tha’s right. Always a fool if you can find a chance to be one, Moll,” a voice sneered.

The light died from the woman’s eyes, the colour from her cheeks. She became at once a creature lifeless, without spirit.

Scot turned, voice soft and suave. “Did you find what you went to look for in the wagon, sir?” he asked, raking the unkempt unclean emigrant with scornful eyes.

A dull flush burned into the man’s face. A furtive darting look slid from the yellow-gray eyes. It carried menace, as does sometimes that of a tamed wolf toward its trainer.

“I—I didn’t notice where Moll was when I started,” he said with sullen reluctance. “An’ I reckon tha’s my business.”

“Quite so,” agreed the gambler.

He bowed again to the woman in the cheap patched homespun, met the eyes of his brother, and turned to go.

From the wagon came a weak little wail. The McClintocks stood rooted in their tracks. Again the puling cry was raised. With a murmured exclamation the woman excused herself hurriedly and climbed into the covered wagon.

“Have you got a baby there?” asked Scot, a new note in his voice.

The father grunted a sulky “Yes.”

“A baby, Hugh. An honest-to-God baby. The first in Virginia City. What do you think about that?”

“Could we see it, do you reckon?” the younger brother asked eagerly.

Scot turned on him reproving eyes. “I’m surprised at you, Hugh. That baby’s being—fed—right now.” Suddenly he wheeled on the emigrant. “Boy or girl?”

“Girl!”

“Great. We’ll call her Virginia.”

“Her name’s Susan,” the father growled.

“No matter. We’ll change it. Last name?”

“Dodson. Her name’s goin’ to stay right what it is now.”

A crowd of men had poured upon the vacant lot to view the scene of the killing. Some were removing the body to an adjacent saloon, others were discussing the affair guardedly from its dramatic and not from its ethical standpoint. There was no question of ethics in an ordinary killing if both combatants had had ample warning. It was the boast of Virginia, just as it was later of Austin, Pioche, Aurora, and the other Nevada camps, that it had “a man for breakfast” each day. This was not the literal truth, but it was too nearly true for comfort. The diggings were infested with wild, lawless criminals driven from more settled communities. They robbed stages, held up citizens, and maintained the rule of the six-gun among communities the great majority of whose residents would much have preferred peace and order.

Scot climbed into the bed of an empty ore wagon and clapped his hands for silence. Only those in his immediate vicinity heard him, wherefore Scot got what he wanted by the simple expedient of firing his revolver into the air.

For a moment there was the threat of a stampede, but not after the discovery that McClintock had fired the gun. Scot was known as a professional gambler, a respectable business man who did not kill wantonly. It was evident that he wanted to make a speech. Anything in reason that Scot McClintock wanted in Virginia City he could have. He was the most popular man in camp.

“Go to it, Scot. Onload heap much oration,” someone shouted.

After which there was silence.

“Boys,” Scot began simply, “I’m going to tell you something that will please you a lot. We’ve got a baby in camp, a real, genuine, blown-in-the-bottle guaranteed baby, the first one that ever hit Virginia City. It’s a lady baby, and her name’s Susan. Now, we’ve none of us got anything against Susan. It’s a good name. But it’s not the name for our baby. We’re going to name that kid Virginia or know why.”

A wild howl of approval lifted into the air. The emotions of Washoe were direct and primitive. This was the sort of thing that made its sure appeal. These men were far from their womenkind and the ties of home. Many of them had slipped into ways that would have shocked their sheltered relatives in older communities. But they were sentimental as schoolgirls. A baby was the symbol of all the happiness they had left behind when they undertook the lonesome hardships of gold hunting. They cheered and shouted and shook hands with each other in deep delight.

“We’re going to give this kid a good send-off, because she’s our baby. Virginia is her name and Virginia is her home. I’m going to pass the hat, boys. You, El Dorado Johnnie and Jean Poulette and Six-Fingered Pete and Murphy Davis get your hats off and circulate among these Washoe millionaires and bummers. Dig deep into your jeans, every last one of you. We’re going to do the right thing by this little lady the good Lord has sent us. Whoop ’er up now,” adjured McClintock.

From every direction men came running to this new form of entertainment. Saloons and gambling houses emptied. The streets began to pack. Still the jingling of coins dropping into hats could be heard. Everybody gave. Scot appointed a committee to count the spoils and another committee to invite the town’s brass band down to the reception.

Meanwhile he whispered in Hugh’s ear and the boy carried a message to the prairie schooner.

“I want to see Mrs. Dodson,” he told that lady’s husband.

The dull, unimaginative face of the man was lit with cupidity and suspicion. It surely was not possible that all this money was going to be turned over to him just because he had a baby. The world couldn’t possibly be so full of fools. Yet it looked like it. He called his wife.

She came out to the tent flap with the baby in her arms. All this noise and confusion frightened her a little, but it did not disturb the tousled little girl by her side. It was meat and drink to her. Her eyes snapped with excitement. She had an inkling of what was going on, and she wriggled like a small, pleased puppy.

Hugh took off his hat. “Madam, we’d like to borrow for a little while yore family. We’re figurin’ on a sort of a parade, and we want the baby in it. We’d like to have you an’ the li’l girl go along to see the baby’s taken care of proper.”

“Goody, goody!” Victoria hopped from one foot to the other as a register of approval.

The woman hesitated. Her glance fluttered timidly to the husband. “I don’t know. What do you think, Rob?” Then, in a low voice: “I haven’t anything to wear. Perhaps you could take Baby.”

The boy interposed hurriedly. “That’s not quite the idea, ma’am. The boys are kinda hungry to see a sure enough mother and baby. It would be a kindness to them if you’d come yoreself. We’ll have the stage, an’ you can ride beside the driver. O’ course we don’t aim to be bossy about it, but our hearts are real set on this.” He smiled, and Hugh’s boyish grin was a winsome argument. It had the touch of sweet deference women liked. “They’re rough looking, ma’am, but none of these miners would hurt you for the world. It’s a celebration for the camp’s first baby.”

“Oh, let’s go, Sister Mollie,” urged Victoria. “I wantta ride in the pee-rade.”

The woman whispered with her husband. He broke out roughly: “Don’t be so damned finicky. Your dress is all right.”

“We’ll come,” the young woman told the boy. “In a few minutes we’ll be ready. And thank you for wanting us.”

Scot McClintock presently arrived himself and escorted the guests of honour to the stage. He assisted the young mother to the seat beside Baldy and passed the baby up to her. The infant was a plump little thing with fat dimpled arms and legs. It crowed up into Scot’s face and gurgled happily at him. Vicky was lifted up to the seat next her sister.

As master of ceremonies Scot, in a long red sash, mounted on a beautiful white horse, rode at the head of the procession. The stage came next, followed by Virginia’s young and exuberant brass band. After this marched the fire organizations in their red shirts and helmets. Empty ore wagons fell into line and were quickly filled with miners. A mixed crowd of residents on foot brought up the rear.

The contributions already collected had been poured from the hats into a tub. This was tied to the back of the stage, in the place where trunks and packages usually rested. All along A Street and back along B Street men fought to get at the tub with their money. The band played “Old Dan Tucker” and other popular airs, but out of deference to a divided public opinion did not give either “Yankee Doodle” or “Dixie.”^[6] There were speeches, of course, full of bombast, eloquence, and local patriotism, all of which were vociferously applauded.

[6] The Civil War was being fought at this time, and though Nevada was far from the scene of action, sectional feeling was high. A fairly large minority of those in Virginia City and Carson were Southerners—W. M. R.

It was while the band was playing that the guest of honour began to cry.

“Stop that damn band and give the kid a chance,” someone shouted.

A hundred light-hearted sons of mirth took up the word. The band stopped in the middle of a bar, and to her mother’s embarrassment Miss Virginia Dodson entertained with a solo.

The marshal of the parade rode back to the coach and smiled up at the young mother.

“Don’t mind the boys,” he advised. “It’s just their way of showing how much they think of our baby. You know, ma’am, this town claims the young lady. We’ve adopted her, but if you say ‘Please’ real nice we’ll let you bring her up.”

Mollie’s bosom warmed within her. A lump rose in her throat and her eyes misted. For years she had been the chattel of Robert Dodson, a creature to be sneered at, derided, and beaten. This splendid-looking hero of romance treated her as though she were a lady. She wondered who he could be. Among all these rough-bearded miners he shone like diamonds in a mud heap. His clothes, manner, speech, the musical intonation of his voice, all set him apart from other men, she thought, even if his figure and face had not marked him for distinction.

A big blond lawyer with a long yellow beard was at the head of the committee appointed to count the money. His name was William M. Stewart. Later he represented Nevada in the United States Senate for many years. At the request of Scot McClintock he made the presentation speech, the baby in his arms at the time. The total amount collected ran over thirty-two hundred dollars.

Robert Dodson had been drinking more or less all day. He had taken the opportunity to celebrate rather steadily during the parade, since, as father of Virginia, he had been offered a nip at many bottles. Now he unwisely presented himself to take charge of the fund raised.

Stewart looked at him carefully, then exchanged glances with Scot.

“Friends,” said the future Senator, “I move a committee of three to take charge of Miss Virginia’s educational fund. If this is satisfactory I shall ask the citizens of the camp to name the trustees.”

It was so voted. When the time came to name the custodians of the fund the crowd shouted “McClintock” and “Stewart.”

The big blond lawyer consulted with Scot. “Mr. McClintock and I are glad to serve as trustees in your behalf, gentlemen,” announced Stewart. “With your permission we shall name Robert Dodson, the father of Virginia, as the third member.”

In the months that followed, Dodson flew into a rage whenever the trust fund was mentioned. He insinuated to his cronies over the bar that McClintock and Stewart were manipulating the money to their own advantage. The fact was that they refused to let their co-trustee get his fingers on any of it to dissipate.