Cabin Gulch Read online

  Smith soon led away from this valley, up out of the head of a ravine, across a rough rock-strewn ridge, down again into a hollow that grew to be a cañon. The trail was bad. Part of the time it was the bottom of a boulder-strewn brook where the horses slipped on the wet round stones. Progress was slow and time passed. For Joan, however, it was a relief, and the slower they might travel, the better she would like it. At the end of that journey there were Gulden and the others, and the gold camp with its illimitable possibilities for such men.

  At noon the party halted for a rest. The campsite was pleasant and the men all agreeable. During the meal Kells found reason to remark to Cleve: “Say, youngster, you’ve brightened up. Must be because of our prospects over here?”

  “Not that so much,” replied Cleve. “I quit the whiskey. To be honest, Kells, I was almost seeing snakes.”

  “I’m glad you quit. When you’re drinking, you’re wild. I never yet saw the man who could drink hard and keep his head. I can’t. But I don’t drink much.”

  His last remark brought a response in laughter. Evidently his companion thought he was joking. He laughed himself and actually winked at Joan.

  It happened to be Cleve who Kells told to saddle Joan’s horse, and, as Joan tried the cinches, to see if they were too tight to suit her, Jim’s hand came in contact with hers. That touch was like a message. Joan was thrilling all over as she looked at Jim, but he kept his face averted. Perhaps he did not trust his eyes.

  Travel was resumed up the cañon and continued steadily, although leisurely. But the trail was so rough, and so winding, that Joan believed the progress did not exceed three miles an hour. It was the kind of travel in which a horse could be helped and that entailed attention to the lay of the ground. Before Joan realized the hours were flying, the afternoon had waned. Smith kept on, however, until nearly dark before halting for camp.

  The evening camp was a scene of activity, and all, except Joan, had work to do. She tried to lend a hand, but Wood told her to rest. This she was glad to do. When called to supper, she had almost fallen asleep. After a long day’s ride the business of eating precluded conversation. Later, however, the men began to talk between puffs on their pipes, and from that talk no one could have guessed that here was a band of robbers on their way to a gold camp. Jesse Smith had a sore foot and he was compared to a tenderfoot on his first ride. Smith retaliated in kind. Every consideration was shown Joan, and Wood particularly appeared assiduous in his desire for her comfort. All the men, except Cleve, paid her some kind attention, and Cleve, of course, neglected her because he was afraid to go near her. Again she felt in Red Pearce a condemnation of the bandit leader who was dragging a girl over hard trails, making her sleep in the open, exposing her to danger and to men like himself and Gulden. In his own estimate Pearce, like every one of his kind, was not so low as the others.

  Joan watched and listened from her blankets, under a leafy tree some few yards from the campfire. Once Kells turned to see how far distant she was, and then, lowering his voice, he told a story. The others laughed. Pearce followed with another, and he, too, took care that Joan could not hear. They grew closer, for the mirth, and Smith, who evidently was a jolly fellow, set them to roaring. Jim Cleve laughed with them.

  “Say, Jim, you’re getting over it,” remarked Kells.

  “Over what?”

  Kells paused, rather embarrassed for a reply, as evidently in the humor of the hour he had spoken a thought better left unsaid. But there was no more forbidding atmosphere about Cleve. He appeared to have rounded to good fellowship after a moody and quarrelsome drinking spell.

  “Why, over what drove you out here . . . and gave me a lucky chance at you,” replied Kells with a constrained laugh.

  “Oh, you mean the girl? Sure, I’m getting over that, except when I drink.”

  “Tell us, Jim,” said Kells curiously.

  “Aw, you’ll give me the laugh,” retorted Cleve.

  “No we won’t, unless your story’s funny.”

  “You can gamble it wasn’t funny,” put in Red Pearce. “Why, Jim was hell-bent for election when he struck our camp.”

  They all coaxed him, yet none of them, except Kells, was particularly curious; it was just that hour when men of their ilk were lazy and comfortable and fully fed and good-humored around the warm blazing campfire.

  “All right,” replied Cleve, and apparently, for all his complaisance, a call upon memory had its pain. “I’m from Montana. Range rider in winter and in summer I prospected. Saved quite a little money, in spite of a fling now and then at faro and whiskey. Yes, there was a girl, I guess, yes. She was pretty. I had a bad case over her. Not long ago I left all I had . . . money and gold and things . . . in her keeping, and I went prospecting again. We were to get married on my return. I stayed out six months, did well, and got robbed of all my dust.”

  Cleve was telling this fabrication in a matter-of-fact way, growing a little less frank as he proceeded, and he paused while he lifted sand and let it sift through his fingers, watching it curiously. All the men were interested and Kells hung on every word.

  “When I got back,” went on Cleve, “my girl had married another fellow. She’d given him all I left with her. Then I got drunk. While I was drunk, they put up a job on me. It was her word that disgraced me and ran me out of town. So I struck west and drifted to the border.”

  “That’s not all,” said Kells bluntly.

  “Jim, I reckon you ain’t tellin’ what you did to that lyin’ girl and the feller. How’d you leave them?” added Pearce.

  But Cleve appeared to become gloomy and reticent.

  “Wimmin can hand the double-cross to a man, hey, Kells?” queried Smith with a broad grin.

  “By gosh, I thought you’d been treated powerful mean!” exclaimed Bate Wood, and he was full of wrath.

  “A treacherous woman is hell!” exclaimed Kells passionately. He had taken Cleve’s story hard. The man must have been betrayed by women, and Cleve’s story had irritated old wounds.

  Directly Kells left the fire and repaired to his blankets, near where Joan lay. Probably he believed her asleep, for he neither looked nor spoke. Cleve sought his bed and likewise Wood and Smith. Pearce was the last to leave, and, as he stood up, the light fell upon his red face, lean and bold like an Indian’s. Then he passed Joan, looking down upon her, and then upon the recumbent figure of Kells; if his glance was not baleful and malignant, as it swept over the bandit, Joan believed her imagination must be vividly weird, and running away with her judgment.

  The next morning began a day of toil. They had to climb over the mountain divide, a long flat-topped range of broken rocks. Joan spared her horse to the limit of her own endurance. If there were a trail, Smith alone knew it, for none was in evidence to the others. They climbed out of the notched head of the cañon and up a long slope of weathered shale, that let the horses slide back a foot for every yard gained, and through a labyrinth of broken cliffs, and over bench and ridge to the height of the divide. From there, Joan had a magnificent view. Foothills rolled around heads below, and miles away, in a curve of the range, glistened Bear Lake. The rest here at this height was counteracted by the fact that the altitude affected Joan. She was glad to be on the move again, and now the travel was downhill so that she could ride. Still it was difficult, for horses were more easily lamed in a descent. It took two hours to descend the distance that had consumed all the morning to ascend. Smith led through valley after valley between the foothills and late in the afternoon halted by a spring in a timbered spot.

  Joan ached in every muscle and she was too tired to care what happened around the campfire. Jim had been close to her all day and that had kept up her spirit. It was not yet dark when she lay down for the night.

  “Sleep well, Dandy Dale,” said Kells cheerfully, yet not without pathos. “Alder Creek tomorrow! Then you’ll never sleep again!”

  At times she seemed to feel that he regretted her presence, and always this fancy came to her
with mocking or bantering suggestion that the costume and mask she wore made her a bandit’s consort, and she could not escape the wildness of this gold-seeking life. The truth was that Kells saw the insuperable barrier between them, and in the bitterness of his love he lied to himself, and hated himself for the lie.

  About the middle of the afternoon of the next day the tired cavalcade rode down out of the brush and rock into a new broad dusty road. It was so new that the stems of the cut brush along the borders were still white. But that road had been traveled by a multitude.

  Across the valley in the rear Joan saw a canvas-topped wagon and she had not ridden far on the road when she saw bobbing pack burros to the fore. Kells had called Wood and Smith and Pearce and Cleve together, and now they went on in a bunch all driving the pack train. Excitement again claimed Kells; Pearce was alert and hawk-eyed; Smith looked like a hound on a scent; Cleve showed genuine feeling. Only Bate Wood remained proof to the meaning of that broad road.

  All along, on each side, Joan saw wrecks of wagons, wheels, harness, boxes, old rags of tents blown into the brush, dead mules and burros. It seemed almost as if an army had passed that way. Presently the road crossed a wide shallow brook of water half clear and half muddy, and on the other side the road followed the course of the brook. Joan heard Smith call the stream Alder Creek and he asked Kells if he knew what the muddied water meant. The bandit’s eyes flashed fire. Joan thrilled, for she, too, knew that upstream there were miners washing earth for gold.

  A couple of miles farther on creek and road entered the mouth of a wide spruce-timbered gulch. These trees hid any view of the slopes or floor of the gulch, and it was not till several more miles had been passed that the bandit rode out into what Joan first thought was a hideous slash in the forest made by fire. But it was only the devastation wrought by men. As far as she could see, the timber was down, and everywhere began to be manifested signs that led her to expect habitations. No cabins showed, however, in the next mile. They passed out of the timbered part of the gulch into one of rugged, bare, and stony slopes, with bunches of sparse alder here and there. The gulch turned at right angles and a great gray slope shut out sight of what lay beyond. But once around that obstruction Kells halted his men with short tense exclamation.

  Joan saw that she stood high up on the slope looking down upon the gold camp. It was an interesting scene, but not beautiful. To Kells it must have been so, but to Joan it was even more hideous than the slash in the forest. Here and there, everywhere, were rude dug-outs, little huts of brush, an occasional tent and an occasional log cabin, and, as she looked farther and farther, these crude habitations of miners magnified in number and in dimensions till the white and black broken mass of the town choked the narrow gulch.

  “Wal, boss, what do you say to that diggin’s?” demanded Jesse Smith.

  Kells drew a deep breath. “Old ’Forty-Niner, this beats all I ever saw!”

  “Shore, I’ve seen Sacramento look like that,” added Bate Wood.

  Pearce and Cleve gazed with fixed eyes, and, however different their emotions, they rivaled each other in attention.

  “Jesse, what’s the word?” queried Kells with a sharp return to the business of the matter.

  “I’ve picked a site on the other side of camp. Best fer us,” he replied.

  “Shall we keep to the road?”

  “Certain-lee,” he returned with his grin.

  Kells hesitated, and felt of his beard, probably conjecturing the possibilities of recognition.

  “Whiskers make another man of you. Reckon you needn’t expect to be known over here.”

  That decided Kells. He pulled his sombrero well down, shadowing his face. Then he remembered Joan, and made a slight significant gesture at her mask.

  “Kells, the people in this here camp wouldn’t look at an army ridin’ through,” responded Smith. “It’s every man fer himself. An’ wimmen, say! There’s all kinds. I seen a dozen with veils an’ them’s the same as masks.”

  Nevertheless Kells had Joan remove the mask and pull her sombrero down, and instructed her to ride in the midst of the group. Then they trotted in, soon catching up with the jogging pack train.

  What a strange ride that was for Joan. The slope resembled a magnified ant hill with a horde of frantic ants in action. As she drew closer, she saw these ants were men, digging for gold. Those near at hand could be plainly seen—rough, ragged, bearded men and smooth-faced boys. Farther on and up the slope, along the waterways and ravines, were miners so close they seemed almost to interfere with each other. The creek bottom was alive with busy, silent, violent men, bending over the water, washing, shaking, and paddling, all desperately intent upon something. They had no time to look up. They were ragged, unkempt, bare-armed and barelegged, every last one of them with back bent. For a mile or more Kells’s party trotted through this part of the diggings, and everywhere, on rock bench and gravel bar and gray slope, were holes with men picking and shoveling in them. Some were deep and some were shallow, some long trenches and others mere pits. If all these prospectors were finding gold, then gold was everywhere. And presently Joan did not need to have Kells tell her that all of these diggers were finding dust. How intent they were—how tense! They were not mechanical. It was a soul that drove them. Joan had seen many men dig for gold, and find a little now and then, but she had never seen men dig when they knew they were going to strike gold. That made the strange difference.

  Joan calculated she must have seen 1,000 miners in less than two miles of the gulch, and then she could not see up the draws and washes that intersected the slope, and she could not see beyond the camp. But it was not a camp she was entering; it was a tent-walled town, a city of squat log cabins, a long motley checkered jumble of structures thrown up and together in much haste. The wide road split it in the middle and seemed a stream of color and life. Joan rode between two lines of horses, burros, oxen, mules—packs and loads and canvas-domed wagons and gaudy vehicles resembling Gypsy caravans. The street was as busy as a beehive and as noisy as a bedlam. The sidewalks were rough-hewn planks and they rattled under the tread of booted men. There were tents on the ground and tents on floors and tents on log walls. And farther on began the lines of cabins—stores and shops and saloons—and then a great square flat structure with a flaring sign in crude gold letters—Last Nugget—from which came the creak of fiddles and scrape of boots, and hoarse mirth. Joan saw strange wild-looking creatures—woman that made her shrink, and several others of her sex, hurrying along, carrying sacks or buckets, worn and bewildered-looking women the sight of whom gave her a pang. She saw lounging Indians and groups of lazy bearded men, just like Kells’s band, and gamblers in long black coats, and frontiersmen in fringed buckskin, and Mexicans with swarthy faces under wide-peaked sombreros, and then in great majority, dominating that stream of life, the lean and stalwart miners, of all ages, in their check shirts and high boots, all packing guns, jostling along, dark-browed, somber and intent. These last were the workers of this vast beehive; the others were the drones, the parasites.

  Kells’s party rode on through the town and Smith halted them beyond the outskirts, near a grove of spruce trees where camp was to be made. Joan pondered over her impression of Alder Creek. It was confused; she had seen too much. But out of what she had seen and heard loomed two contrasting features—a throng of toiling miners, slaves to their lust for gold and actuated by ambitions, hopes, and aims, honest rugged tireless workers, but frenzied in that strange pursuit, and a lesser crowd, like leeches, living for and off the gold they did not dig with blood of hand and sweat of brow.

  Manifestly Jesse Smith had selected the spot for Kells’s permanent location at Alder Creek with an eye for the bandit’s peculiar needs. It was out of sight of town, yet within 100 rods of the nearest huts, and closer than that to a sawmill. It could be approached by a shallow ravine that wound away toward the creek. It was backed up against a rugged bluff in which there was a narrow gorge, choked with pieces of weathere
d cliff, and no doubt the bandits could go and come in that direction. There was a spring near at hand and a grove of spruce trees. The ground was rocky, and apparently unfit for the digging of gold.

  While Bate Wood began preparations for supper, and Cleve built the fire, and Smith looked after the horses, Kells and Pearce stepped off the ground where the cabin was to be erected. They selected a level bench down upon which a huge cracked rock, as large as a house, had rolled. The cabin was to be backed up against this stone, and in the rear, under cover of it, a secret exit could be made and hidden. The bandit wanted two holes to his burrow.

  When the group sat down to the meal, the gulch was full of sunset colors, and strangely they were all some shade of gold. Beautiful golden veils, misty, ethereal, shone in rags across the gulch from the broken ramparts, and they seemed so brilliant, so rich,—prophetic of the treasures of the hills. But that golden sunset changed. The sun went down red, leaving a sinister shadow over the gulch, growing darker and darker. Joan saw Cleve thoughtfully watching this transformation, and she wondered if he had caught the subtle mood of Nature. For whatever had been the hope and brightness, the golden glory of this new El Dorado, this sudden uprising Alder Creek with its horde of brave and toiling miners, the truth was that Jack Kells and Gulden had ridden into the camp, and the sun had gone down red. Joan knew that great mining camps were always happy, rich, free, lucky, honest places till the fame of gold brought evil men. She had not the slightest doubt that the sun of Alder Creek’s brief and glad day had set forever.