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Overland Red: A Romance of the Moonstone Canon Trail, a novel by Henry Herbert Knibbs |
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Chapter 14. "Call It The 'Rose Girl'" |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. "CALL IT THE 'ROSE GIRL'" "What are you going to do with those things?" asked Winthrop. "Not burn them?" "Yep; every strap and tie-string," replied Overland, gathering together the dead prospector's few effects. "Cause why? Well, Billy, if this claim ain't filed on,--and I reckon it ain't,--why, we files on her as the original locators. Nobody gets wise to anything and it saves the chance of gettin' jumped. The bunch over there would make it interestin' for us if they knowed we was goin' to file on it. They'd put up a fight by law, and mebby one not by law. Sabe?" "I think so. Going to burn that little--er--cradle arrangement, too?" "Yep. Sorry, 'cause it's wood, and wood is wood here. That little rocker is a cradle all right for rockin' them yella babies in and then out. The hand that rocks that cradle hard enough rules the world, as the pote says." "So this is how gold is mined?" queried Winthrop, examining the crude rocker and the few rusted tools. "One way. Pan, cradle, or sluice for free gold. They's about four other ways. This here's our way." "Is it a rich claim?" "Tolerable. I panned some up the branch. She runs about two dollars a pan." "Is that all?" Overland smiled as he poked a smouldering corner of blanket into the fire. "It is and it ain't. I reckon you could pan fifty pans a day. That's a hundred dollars. Then I could do that much and the cookin', too. That's another hundred. Two hundred dollars a day ain't bad wages for two guys. It ought to keep us in grub and postage stamps and some chewin'-gum once in a while." "Two hundred a day!" And Winthrop whistled. "That doesn't seem much in New York--on the street, but out here--right out of the ground. Why, that's twelve hundred a week." "Nope--not exactly. She's a rich one, and bein' so rich at the start she'll peter out fast, I take it. I know these here kind. When we come to the end of the canon we're at the end, that's all. Besides, she's so rich we won't work six days every week. If she was half as good, mebby we would. You never done much fancy pick-handle exercise, did you?" "No, but I'm going to. This beats signing checks all to pieces." "Never got cramps that way myself," grunted Overland. "But I have from swingin' a pick. Your back'll be so blame stiff in about three days that you'll wish you never seen a pan or a shovel. Then you'll get over the fever and settle down sensible. Three of us could do a heap better than two. I wish Collie was on the job." "I'm willing," said Winthrop. "'Course you are, but you get your half of this as agreed. Collie's share comes out of my half. I'm playin' this hand over the table, in plain sight." Winthrop glanced quickly at Overland's inscrutable face. "Suppose I should tell you that my income, each week, is about equal to what we expect to get from this claim?" "Makes no difference," growled Overland. "It wasn't your money that stood off the constable--and later out in the desert. It was you. They's some places left on this old map yet where a man is jest what his two fists and his head is worth. This here Mojave is one of 'em. Are you squeak to that?" "I understand," said Winthrop. * * * * * They worked steadily until evening. They staked out their respective and adjoining claims, dropped the rusted tools in a bottomless crevice, and removed the last shred and vestige of a previous occupancy. "This here's been too easy," said Overland, as he sliced bacon for the evening meal. "When things comes as easy as this, you want to watch out for a change in the weather. We ain't through with the bunch yet." The Easterner, making the evening fire, nodded. "How are we to get provisions?" he asked. "First, I was thinkin' of packin' 'em in from Gophertown, over yonder. She's about thirty miles from here, across the alkali. 'T aint a regular town, but they got grub. But if we got to comin' in regular, they'd smell gold quicker than bees findin' orange-blossoms. They got my number, likewise." "How's that?" "They know I been standin' out on the edge ever since I had a little fuss with some folks over at Yuma, quite a spell ago." "Won't you tell me about it?" "Sure! They was three parties interested--me and another gent and a hoss. I guess the hoss is still alive." Winthrop laughed. "That's a pretty brief epic," he said. "Uhuh. It was. But I reckon we got to hit the breeze out of here right soon. Here, le' me take that fry-pan a minute. It's this way. Me and you's located this claim. Now we go and file. But first we got to get some dough. I got a scheme. I'm thinkin' of gettin' a dude outfit--long-tailed coat and checker pants and a elevated lid with a shine to it. Then you and me to the State House and file on this here claim. You stay right in them kickie clothes and that puncher hat. We file, see? The gents supportin' the bars and store corners will be so interested in seein' me do you for your pile that they'll forget to remember who I am, like I would be in me natural jeans. They'll size me for a phoney promoter excavatin' your pocketbook. It's a chance--but we got to take it." "That's all very weird and wonderful," said Winthrop, "and not so very flattering to me, but I am game. I'll furnish the expense money." After the evening meal they drew nearer the fire and smoked in the chill silence. The flames threw strange dancing shadows on the opposite cliff. Winthrop, mindful of Overland's advice, slipped on his coat as the night deepened. "About your adopting a disguise," he began; "I should think you would look well enough clean-shaven and dressed in some stylish, rough tweed. You have fine shoulders and--" "Hold on, Billy! I'm a livin' statoo, I know. But listen! I got to go the limit to look the part. You can't iron the hoof-marks of hell and Texas out of my mug in a hundred years. The old desert and the border towns and the bottle burned 'em in to stay. Them kind of looks don't go with business clothes. I got to look fly--jest like I didn't know no better." "Perhaps you are right. You seem to make a go of everything you tackle." "Yep! Some things I made go so fast I ain't caught up with 'em yet. You know I used to wonder if a fella's face would ever come smooth again in heaven. That was a spell ago. I ain't been worryin' about it none lately." "How old are you?" "Me? I'm huggin' thirty-five clost. But not so clost I can't hear thirty-six lopin' up right smart." "Only thirty-five!" exclaimed Winthrop. Then quickly, "Oh, I beg your pardon." "That's nothin'", said Overland genially. "It ain't the 'thirty-five' that makes me feel sore--it's the 'only.' You said it all then. But believe me, pardner, the thirty-five have been all red chips." "Well, you have lived," sighed Winthrop. "And come clost to forgettin' to, once or twice. Anyhow,--speakin' of heaven,--I'd jest as soon take my chances with this here mug of mine, what shows I earned all I got, as with one of them there dead-fish faces I seen on some guys that never done nothin' better or worse than get up for breakfast." Winthrop smiled. "Yes. And you believe in a heaven, then?" "From mornin' till night. And then more than ever. Not your kind of a heaven, or mebby any other guy's. But as sure as you're goin' to crease them new boots by settin' too clost to the fire, there's somethin' up there windin' up the works regular and seein' that she ticks right, and once in a while chuckin' out old wheels and puttin' in new ones. Jest take a look at them stars! Do you reckon they're runnin' right on time and not jumpin' the track and dodgin' each other that slick--jest because they was throwed out of a star-factory promiscus like a shovel of gravel? No, sir! Each one is doin' its stunt because the other one is--same as folks. Sure, there's somethin' runnin the big works; but whether me or you is goin' to get a look-in,--goin' to be let in on it,--why, that's different." Winthrop drew back from the fire and crossed his legs. He leaned forward, gazing at the flames. From the viewless distance came the howl of coyotes. "They're tryin' to figure it out--same as us," said Overland, poking a half-burned root into the fire. "And they're gettin' about as far along at it, too. Like most folks does in a crowd--jest howlin' all together. Mebby it sounds good to 'em. I don' know." "I'm somewhat of a scoffer, I think," said Winthrop presently. "Most lungers is," was Overland's cheerful comment. "They're sore on their luck. They ain't really sore at the big works. They only think so. I've knowed lots of 'em that way." "To-night,--here in this canon,--with the stars and the desert so near, you almost persuade me that there is something." "Hold on, Billy! You're grazin' on the wrong side of the range if you think I'm preachin'. My God! I hate preachin' worse than I could hate hell if I thought they was one. My little old ideas is mine. I roped 'em and branded 'em and I'm breakin' 'em in to ride to suit me. I ain't askin' nobody to risk gettin' throwed ridin' any of my stock. Sabe?" "But a chap may peek through the fence and watch, mayn't he?" "Sure! Mebby you're breakin' some stock of your own like that. If you are, any little old rig I got is yours." "Thank you. And I'm not joking. Perhaps I'll get the right grip on things later. I've been used to town and the pace. I've always had money, but I never felt really clean, inside and out, until now. I never before burned my bridges and went it under my own flag." Overland nodded sagely. "Uhuh. It's the air. Your feelin' clean and religious-like is nacheral up here. Don't worry if it feels queer to you at first--you'll get used to it. Why, I quit cussin', myself, when everything seems so dum' quiet. Sounds like the whole works had stopped to listen to a fella. Swearin' ain't so hefty then. Sort of outdoor stage fright, I reckon. Say, do you believe preachin' ever did much good?" "Sometimes I've thought it did." "I seen a case once," began Overland reminiscently. "It was Toledo Blake. He was a kind of bum middleweight scrapper when he was workin' at it. When he wasn't trainin' he was a kind of locoed heavyweight--stewed most of the time. It was one winter night in Toledo. Me and him went into one of them 'Come-In-Stranger' rescue joints. 'Course, they was singin' hymns and prayin' in there, but it was warmer than outside, so we stayed. "After a while up jumps the foreman of that gospel outfit. His foretop was long, and he wore it over one ear like a hoss's when the wind is blowin'. "He commenced wrong, I guess. He points down the room to where me and Toledo was settin', and he hollers, 'Go to the ant, you slugger! Consider her game and get hep to it,' or somethin' similar. "That word 'slugger' kind of jarred Toledo. He jumps up kind of mad. 'Mebby I am a slugger, and mebby I ain't, but you needn't to get personal about it. Anyhow, I ain't got no aunt.' "'The text,' says the hoss-faced guy on the platform, 'the text, my brother, is semaphorical.' "Toledo couldn't understand that, so I whispers, 'Set down, you mutt! Semaphore is a sign ain't it? Well, he's givin' you the sign talk. Set down and listen.' "Toledo, he hadn't had a drink for a week, and he was naturally feelin' kind of ugly. 'All right,' he growls at the preacher guy. 'All right. I pass.' "'Ah, my brother!' says the hoss-faced guy. 'I see the spirits is at work.' That kind of got Toledo's goat. "'Your dope is bum,' says Toledo. 'I ain't had a drink for a week. First you tell a fella to go see his aunt, when she's been planted for ten years. Then--' "'Listen, brother!' says the preacher guy. 'I referred to ants--little, industrious critters that are examples of thrift to the idle, the indignant, the--' "'Hold on!' says Toledo. 'Do you mean red ants or black ants?' And I seen that a spark had touched Toledo's brainbox and that he was wrastlin' with somethin' that felt like thinkin'. "'Either, my brother,' says the hoss-faced guy, smilin' clear up to his back teeth. "'Well, you're drawin' your dope from the wrong can,' says Toledo, shufflin' for the door. 'Because,' says he, turnin' in the doorway, 'because, how in hell is a fella goin' to find any ants with two feet of snow on the ground?' "And then Toledo and me went out. It was a mighty cold night." Overland Red rolled a cigarette, pausing in his narrative to see whether Winthrop, who sat with bowed head, was asleep or not. Winthrop glanced up. "I'm awake," he said, smiling. "Very much awake. I can see it all--you two, down on your luck, and the snow freezing and melting on the bottoms of your trousers. And the stuffy little rescue mission with a few weary faces and many empty chairs; the 'preacher guy,' as you call him, earnest, and ignorant, and altogether wrong in trying to reason with Toledo Blake's empty stomach." "That's it!" concurred Overland. "A empty stomach is a plumb unreasonable thing. But the preacher guy done some good, at that. He set Toledo Blake to thinkin' which was somethin' new and original for Toledo. "It was nex' spring Toledo and me was travelin' out this way, inspectin' the road-bed of the Santa Fe, when we runs onto a big red-ant's nest in the sand alongside of the track. Toledo, he squats down and looks. The first thing he sees was a leetle pa ant grab up a piece of crust twice his size and commence sweatin' and puffin' to drag it home to the kids. "'The leetle cuss!' says Toledo. 'He's some strong on the lift!' And Toledo, he takes the piece of crust from the pa ant and sticks it at the top of the hole, thinkin' to help the pa ant along. But the pa ant, he hustles right up and grabs the crust and waves her around his head a couple of times to show how strong he is, and then starts back to where he found the crust. Down he plumps it--gives it a h'ist or two and then grabs it up. He waves it around in his mitts and wobbles off toward the hole again. Independent? Well, mostly! "Toledo, he said nothin', but his eyes was pokin' out of his head tryin' to think. You never see a man sweat so tryin' to get both hands onto a idea at once. His dome was kind of flat, but he could handle one idea, in single harness, at a time. "Anyhow, the next town we strikes, Toledo, he quits me and gets a sort of chambermaid's job tidyin' up around a little old boiler-factory and machine-shop; pilin' scrap-iron and pig-iron and little things like that. And he stuck, too. "A couple of years after that I was beatin' it on a rattler goin' west, and I drops off at that town. About the first thing I seen was Toledo comin' down the street. Alongside of him was a woman carry in' a kid in her arms, and another one grazin' along close behind. And Toledo had a loaf of bread under his arm. "'This here is Mrs. Blake,' says Toledo, kind of nervous. "'I am glad she is,' says I. 'Toledo, you're doin' well. Don't know nothin' about the leetle colt in the blanket, but the yearlin' is built right. He's got good hocks and first-class action.' "Mrs. Toledo, she kind of sniffed superior, but said nothin'. You know that kind of sayin' nothin' which is waitin' for you to move on. "'Won't you come up to the shack and have grub?' says Toledo, hopin' I'd say 'No.' "'Nope,' says I. 'Obliged jest the same. I see you got hep to the ant all right.' "'I'll let you know I'm nobody's aunt!' says Mrs. Toledo, yankin' the yearlin' off his hoofs and settin' him down again. For a fact, she thunk I was alludin' to her. "'Of course not, madam,' says I, polite, and liftin' me lid. 'And I judge somebody's in luck at that.' "I guess it was her not used to bein' spoke and acted polite to that got her goat. Mebby she smelt somethin' sarcastic. I dunno. Anyhow, she was a longhorn with a bad eye. 'Go on, you chicken-lifter!' she says. "Bein' no hand to sass a lady, I said nothin' more to her. But I hands Toledo a jolt for bein' ashamed of his old pal. "'Well, so long,' says I, kind of offhand and easy. 'So long. I'll tell Lucy when I see her that you was run over by a freight and killed. Then she can take out them papers and marry Mike Brannigan that's been waitin' in the hopes you'd pass over. You remember Mike, the cop on Cherry Street. You oughta. He's pinched you often enough. 'Course you do. Well, so long. Little Johnny was lookin' fine the last I seen of him. He's gettin' more like his pa every day. But I got to beat it.'" Overland Red leaned back and puffed a great cloud of smoke from a fresh cigarette. "Who was Lucy?" asked Winthrop. "Search me!" replied Overland. "They wasn't any Lucy or nobody like that. But I'd like to 'a' stayed to hear Toledo explain that to Mrs. Toledo, though. She was a hard map to talk to." "I suppose there's a moral attached to that, or, more properly, embodied in that story. But it is good enough in itself without disemboweling it for the moral." "You can't always go by ants, neither," said Overland. Winthrop nodded. His eyes were filled with the awe of great distances and innumerable stars. "Gold!" he whispered presently, as one whispers in dreams. "Gold! Everywhere! In the sun--in the starlight--in the flowers--in the flame. In wine, in a girl's hair.... Gold! Mystery.... Power ... and as impotent as Fate." Winthrop's head lifted suddenly. "What shall we call the mine?" he asked. Overland Red started, as though struck from ambush. "How did you guess?" he queried. "Guess what?" "That I was thinkin' about the claim?" "I didn't guess it. I was dreaming. Suddenly I asked a question, without knowing that I was speaking." "Mebby I was bearin' down so hard on the same idea that you kind of felt the strain." "Possibly. That's not unusual. What shall we call it?" "Wha--I was thinkin' of callin' it the 'Rose Girl' after a girl Collie and me knows up Moonstone Canon way." "It's rather a good name," said Winthrop. "Is the girl pretty?" "Pretty? Gosh! That ain't the word. Her real name is Louise Lacharme, and, believe me, Billy, she's all that her name sounds like, and then some." _ |
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