The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
to the town for Christmas. And since he had been going teetotal—or rather confining himself to only one bottle of whisky a day—for some weeks, we felt he deserved a respite. So Jim gave him his share of all the proceeds up to date, and on Christmas Eve we all drove into Bull Mine Creek.
Outside the door of the hotel was a buggy drawn by two fine Arabs, around which stood a ring of loungers contemplatively spitting. The horses were tied up to the rail of the veranda, and Jim glanced at them as we drove past.
"A nice pair of cattle," he remarked. "I wonder whom they belong to."
The next moment our own horse stopped suddenly, and then gave a sudden plunge forward. She was not used to having her head nearly pulled off unexpectedly, and Jim was certainly not accustomed to treat an animal in such a way. In some surprise I looked at him, and the expression on his face amazed me. It also decided me against making any comment.
Instead, I looked back and made a further inspection of the owner of the two Arabs, whose sudden appearance had so upset my companion. He was a tall, good-looking man whose age I put at about thirty. He had a small, fair moustache, and was rather of the pink-and-white type. So much I saw before we turned the corner and were out of sight. My last glimpse of him was leading his two horses towards the back of the hotel while the ring of loungers still contemplatively spat.
Jim drove on in silence to the shanty where we were putting up. He was frowning thoughtfully, and underneath the beard which he had allowed to grow during the past two months his mouth was set in a straight line. But he said nothing, even after we had put the mare up; and he only nodded curtly at One- eyed Mike's earnest hope that we would raise the roof with him that night. So Mike, fully capable of performing the operation on his own, departed to the hotel to lay the foundation for a forty-eight-hour jag.
"Did you see that fellow, Dick?" said Jim at length. "The fellow at the hotel with those two greys?"
"I did," I answered. "Who is he?"
Jim smiled a little grimly.
"He is John James Hildebrand, fifteenth Marquis of Sussex, the eldest son of the Duke of Plumpton."
"All that, is he?" I said. "One rather wonders what John James Hildebrand is doing at Bull Mine Creek."
"One does," agreed Jim. "Excessively so."
And with that he swung on his heel, and I saw him no more for some hours. I wrote two or three long overdue letters, and then having nothing better to do, I strolled along the dusty road to the hotel to get a drink. The place was filling up with the crowd who had come in for Christmas, and the first man I saw was One-eyed Mike. He beckoned to me joyously and I went over to his table.
"There's going to be some fun here tonight, boy!" he cried as I sat down. "There's a dude that calls himself Hildebrand wandering around, and the boys are just crazy to know him better. They want to know if he's real."
So the fifteenth Marquis of Sussex had decided not to advertise the fact.
"What's he doing here, Mike?" I asked.
"Come out to look at some property he's got, so he told the boss here. Taken a room, and wants his dinner served upstairs." Mike began to chuckle again. "Look out; here he is."
* * * * *
John James Hildebrand had just entered the room from the other end, and I watched him curiously. There was no doubt that Mike's prophecy was going to be fulfilled; the fun had started already. Following close at his heels came half a dozen miners, all gazing at him in rapt awe and admiration. The baiting of John James had begun in earnest.
He halted by the bar, and the miners instantly came to a standstill.
"Boys," shouted the leader, "let us have silence! Mr. Hildebrand is about to consume some liquid refreshment. And the slightest sound might interfere with Mr. Hildebrand's enjoyment."
A dead silence settled on the room, and I wondered how he was going to take it.
"Quite right," he remarked, with a faint, rather pleasant drawl. "Which is why I don't ask you to join me. Six of you—all drinking— would fairly put the lid on."
The leader roared with laughter, and I grinned gently. Quite obviously John James had the right stuff in him.
"I'm dashed if you drink alone, Mr. Hildebrand," cried the leader, coming up to the counter. "You drink with me right here."
He shouted for a round, and they formed up on each side of John James.
"I'm not so certain that you are going to have your fun, Mike," I remarked, when suddenly he leant forward and stared at the door which had just swung open.
"Holy Moses!" he muttered. "Here's Pete Cornish. I didn't know he was up these parts."
A sudden cessation of conversation took place as the man who had just come in moved up to the bar. As if he had noticed it, and attributed it to his sudden entry, a faint smile hovered round his lips. His face was almost bloodless, and a great red scar across his right cheek emphasised the pallor. But the most noticeable feature of the man's face was a pair of very light blue eyes which seemed to stare unwinkingly from under his big forehead at the object of his scrutiny. He stooped a little, but even with the stoop he measured over six feet. And the depth of his chest betokened his immense strength.
"Steer clear of him, boy," muttered Mike to me. "I haven't seen him for six years, but I guess he hasn't changed. And he's the devil incarnate, is Pete Cornish. I once saw him break a man's back with his hands alone— across his knees. He's spent fifteen years of his life in prison as it is."
But I wasn't paying attention to Mike's reminiscences. I was watching Pete Cornish. He came to a standstill just behind John James, and for a moment or two he stood there in silence. It was the miner who had called for drinks who' first saw him, and he turned round with a somewhat sickly smile.
"Hullo, Pete!" he said, "will you join us?"
"I will," answered Cornish quietly. "And who is your friend?"
"Hildebrand," returned the other. "This is Pete Cornish."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hildebrand," said Cornish. "And what might you be doing? Prospecting?"
"I've come out to see a property of mine," answered Hildebrand briefly.
The blue eyes never left his face for an instant, even when their owner raised his glass to his lips. There was something baleful in their unblinking intensity, something almost terrifying which the quiet voice and general immobility seemed only to enhance. The man never moved; he merely stared until after a while the other fidgeted a little and turned away. And the faintest flicker of a smile appeared on Cornish's lips.
"I seem to recognise your face, Mr. Hildebrand," he remarked as he put down his empty glass. "In fact, I am sure I do. And so, you will drink with me."
It was not a question; it was a statement, and Hildebrand flushed slightly.
"Thank you, no," he answered. "I don't want anything more to drink at present."
"I said, Mr. Hildebrand, that you would drink with me," said the other gently, and it was then I noticed that five of the original six miners who had lined up at the bar had slipped unostentatiously away. Only the leader remained, and he was shuffling his feet.
"The guy is all right, Pete," he muttered awkwardly. "Guess he may not have the head for our whisky."
The blue eyes temporarily transferred their gaze to the last speaker.
"I'm not quite clear how you come into this matter," remarked Cornish. "I wasn't aware that you were even in the picture."
The miner turned and stammered out something, but Cornish simply ignored his existence.
"Now, Mr. Hildebrand, you will drink a little toast with me," he continued, pushing a glass towards him.
"I have already said that I will not have another, thank you," returned the other icily. "I drink when I like, and with whom I like."
He