Rimrock Trail - Joseph Allan Dunn (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📗

an' I'll see the thing through to some sort of finish. Me an' young Ed'll camp here. I figger we can git the car up. It's gone through worse places. There's water down there in the crick. We've got grub. When it's gone we can buy more. How many claims can we take up an' what's the size of 'em, Mr. Westlake?"

The three partners left Miranda and the engineer measuring off and setting up their monuments at the corners of the claim. Young Bailey started for the faithful flivver. They started directly down the sidehill, making for the valley, in silence, like men with business ahead of them that called for action rather than words.

"Figger that tent is on them claims of Molly's and our'n?" asked Sam, as they paused before they tackled the eastern slope. "Looked like it was to me."

"Me too," said Mormon.

"I wouldn't wonder," agreed Sandy. "Here's the situation, as I sabe it. Plimsoll met up with Pat Casey from time to time. Molly said so. There's other witnesses to that. Plimsoll'll use some of them to swear that he grubstaked Casey. They'll be some of his own crowd. No doubt Plimsoll got the location of the claims from the old records an' these buckaroo pals of his, who are roostin' on said location, knew jest where to go an' stahted out well in front with their outfit. I don't reckon we'll find Plimsoll up there, though we ain't seen him so far this mo'nin', but I'll bet our best bull ag'in' a chunk of dogmeat that they're on his pay-roll."

"Shucks, it don't make no difference whose pay-roll they're on," said Mormon. "They're claim-jumpers an', like you said, Sandy, a jump can be made two ways. Let's go look 'em over."

The tent was pitched on the hillside where the grade was too steep to permit of level ground enough for more than the actual floor space. The brown duck erection strained at the guy ropes of its upper side where the stakes had been driven deep into the soil. The chimney of a small stove came through the top of the cloth, guarded by a metal ring. Outside were boxes, saddles, an ax, kettles and pans, a portable grill and other camping equipment. The tent flaps were open and showed cots on which blankets and clothing were roughly spread. On two of these beds men sprawled asleep. Five others were seated on boxes about a boulder that looked like porphyry outcrop. Its surface was flat enough to serve as a table. The five were playing poker. One was bearded and seemed the old-time miner. All boasted stubble on their chins, two wore mustaches. One was bald. Their clothes varied, from the miner's faded blue overalls, high boots and flannel shirt, to soiled khaki and laced prospector's footwear. One thing they all had in common, cartridge belts and guns, in plain view. Taken together they were not a prepossessing lot, playing their game in silence, looking up with a scowl and movements toward gun butts at the visitors. Two burros cropped at the scanty herbage above the tent. A demijohn stood between two of the box seats.

"I've seen that tent afore," whispered Sam to Sandy. The latter nodded.

"Campin' out, gents?" he asked amiably.

"No, we ain't. These claims are preempted. Trespassers ain't welcome. You're invited to move on."

"That's a new name fo' it," said Sandy pleasantly. "New to me. Preempted."

"What in hell are you driving at?" asked the other. "This is private property."

"Property of Jim Plimsoll?"

"None of yore damned business."

There was a movement in the tent. One of the men got up from his cot and stood yawning in the entrance, one hand on the pole. The other snored on. Sandy, with Mormon and Sam, stood just above the group on the narrow bench that furnished the floor for the tent. They had little doubt that the jumpers knew who they were, though they recognized none of them by sight. There was a hesitancy toward action that might have been born out of respect to Sandy's two guns or a foreknowledge of his reputation in handling them, aside from the armament of his partners. Sandy's hands rested lightly on his hips, his thumbs hooked in his belt, fingers grazing the butts of his guns. There was a smile on his lips but none in his eyes. His tone and manner were easy.

"Saw his stencil on the tent," he said. "J. P. in a diamond. Same brand he uses fo' his hawsses. Or mebbe you found it."

His drawling voice held a taunt that brought angry flushes of color to the faces of the men opposing him, yet they made no definite movement toward attack. It seemed patent that Sandy Bourke was testing them. Trouble was in the air, two kinds of it: on the one side hesitant belligerency; on the other—cool nonchalance. Sandy, with his smiling lips and unsmiling eyes, stood lightly poised as a dancing master. Mormon and Sam were tenser, crouched a little from the hips, elbows away from their sides, hands with fingers apart, ready to close on gun butts, standing as boxers stand or distance-runners set on their marks.

The man who stood in the tent door kicked at his sleeping companion and roused him to sit on the side of his cot and stare sleepily out, gradually taking in the situation. There were seven against three but, when the odds are so big and the minority faces them with a readiness and an assurance that shows in their eyes, on their lips, vibrates from their compacted alliance, the measure is one of will, rather than physical and merely numerical superiority, and the balance beam quivers undecidedly. The bearded miner, with the rest, looked shiftily toward the man who had done the speaking, the bald-headed one, whose khaki and nail-studded boots were belied by the softness and puffiness of his flesh, the sags and wrinkles beneath his eyes and under his double chins. He had little gray-green orbs that glittered uneasily.

"I'm giving you men two minutes to clear out of here," he said. "No two-gunned cow-puncher can throw any bluff round here, if that's what you're trying to do."

Sandy laughed joyously. The smile was in his eyes now.

"If I figger a man's throwin' a bluff," he said, "I usually figger to call him, not to chew about it. Me, I pack two guns fo' a reason. Once in a while I shoot off all the ca'tridges from one an' then I don't have to reload. Now, I'm talkin'. These claims are duly registered in the name of Patrick Casey, his heirs an' assigns. Here's the papers. The assessment work is all done. Pat's daughter owns 'em now. We're representin' her. An' I'm servin' you notice to quit. We'll take the same two minutes you was talkin' of. They must be nigh up now, though I didn't see you lookin' at yo' watch. I'm lookin' at my Ingersoll an' I give it sixty seconds mo'. Then staht yore li'l' demonstration, gents, providin' I don't beat you to it." He started to roll a cigarette with hands skilful and steady. Back of him Sam and Mormon stood like dogs on point, watchful, unmoving, but instinct with suppressed motion.

"The girl may be his heir," said the bald-headed man, "but Plimsoll is assignee. Plimsoll staked him an' these claims are half his. The girl can put in her share to the title later, if they amount to anything. She ain't of age."

"So J. P. was hirin' you to do his dirty work," said Sandy, his voice cold with contempt. "You go back to him, the whole lousy pack of you, an' tell him from me he's a yellow-spined liar. Git! Take yore stuff with you or send back fo' it. Now, git off this property."

If a man can make movements with his hands so swiftly that they are covered in less than a tenth of a second, ordinary human sight can not register them. He has achieved the magician's slogan—the quickness of the hand deceives the eye. It takes natural aptitude and long practise, whether one is juggling gilded balls or blued-steel revolvers. Sandy could, with a circling movement of his wrists, draw his guns from their holsters and bring them to bear directly upon the target to which his eyes shifted. Glance, twist of wrist, arrest of motion, pressure of finger, all coordinated. One moment his hands were empty, his glance carelessly contemptuous, the veriest movement of a split-second stop-watch and the gun in his right hand spat fire, the gun in his left swung in an arc that menaced the five card players.

The other two were struggling beneath the crumpled folds of a collapsed tent, wriggling frantically like the stage hands who simulate waves by crawling beneath painted canvas. Sandy had shattered the pegs that held up the upper corners of the tent on the slope, had cut the cords of the remaining guys on that side and the structure had swayed and collapsed.

Sam and Mormon had lined up now with Sandy. There was no mistaking their intention to use their guns. But the exhibition had been quite sufficient. With one accord the five raised their hands shoulder high and began to shuffle down the hill, regardless of their equipment, which, having been paid for by Plimsoll, they regarded as of much less value than the necessity for departure.

"Come out of that," commanded Sandy to the two wrigglers. "Git a move on."

The faces that appeared were ludicrous in their expressions of dismay and appeal. Their owners came out like dogs from a kennel who expect to be kicked as they emerge. One of them had taken off his boots for better sleeping and he hobbled uneasily in his socks.

"Take along yore booze," said Sandy.

The bootless one looked furtively at the demijohn, still like a wary cur who snatches at and bolts with a stray bone. Then the pair set off at a jog trot after the rest.

"I wonder," said Sam, "if that was good whisky?"

Sandy looked at him reproachfully. "Sody-Water," he said, "I'm plumb disappointed in you an' yore cravin'. Smell it an' see."

His gun exploded. The man with the demijohn gave a curious hop, skip and jump. The demijohn jerked in his hand but seemed intact. The bullet, smashing through the wickerwork, had shattered the container but the tough willow twigs preserved the shape. Two more shots and there was a tinkle of broken glass. The last bullet had clipped the neck. It was too close shooting for the sockless one and the whisky was dripping fast through the weave, bringing a reek of crude liquor to Sam's twitching nostrils. The claim-jumper dropped what was left of his burden and went hopping on, acquiring stone bruises with every leap.

"Scattered like a bunch of coyotes," said Sam.

"Sure did," agreed Sandy. "Minute they stahted talkin', 'stead of shootin', I knew they was ready to stampede. They'll beat it to Plimsoll an' we'll see jest how much sand he's got in his craw."

"Not enough to keep him from skiddin' on a downgrade," said Mormon. "Sandy, that's cruelty to animals, sendin' that hombre off 'thout his boots after you took away his licker. I've got tender feet myse'f as well as a soft heart. Help me with this tent a minute, Sam."

Together they raised the fallen canvas enough to discover the boots, which Mormon hurled down-hill after the limping one, who was far in the rear of his companions. He turned at Mormon's shout and he stopped, fearful at the act of kindness, crawled up the slope and retrieved his footwear, pulled them on and scurried off.

A distant shout reached them from the other side of the gulch. By position, rather than actual recognition, Sandy guessed the figure that of Westlake. The