The Sky Line of Spruce. Edison Marshall
Where's your boat."
"My pard's got an old craft, and he and I are goin' to pack it out next trip." The stranger paused, blinking his eyes. "Say, partners—you don't want to sell your boat, do you?"
Ben started to speak, but the doubtful look on Ezram's face checked him. "Oh, I don't know," the old man replied, in the discouraging tones of a born tradesman. In reality the old Shylock's heart was leaping gayly in his breast. This was almost too good to be true: a purchaser for the boat in the first hour. "Yet we might," he went on. "We was countin' on goin' back in it soon."
"I'd just as leave buy it, if you want to sell it. In this jerked-off town there ain't a fit canoe to be had. Our boat is the worst tub you ever seen. How much you want for it?"
Ezram stated his figure, and Ben was prone to believe that he had adopted a highwayman for a buddy. The amount named was nearly twice that which they had paid. And to his vast amazement the stranger accepted the offer in his next breath.
"It's worth something to bring it up here, you dub," Ezram informed his young partner, when the latter accused him of profiteering.
After the sale was made Ezram and the stranger soon got on the intimate terms that almost invariably follow a mutually satisfactory business deal, and in the talk that ensued the old man learned a fact of the most vital importance to their venture. And it came like a bolt from the blue.
"So you don't know any folks in Snowy Gulch, then?" the stranger had asked politely. "But you'll get acquainted soon enough—"
"I've got a letter to a feller named Morris," Ezram replied. "And I've heard of one or two more men too—Jeffery Neilson was one of 'em—"
"You'll find Morris in town all right," the stranger ventured to assure him. "He lives right next to Neilson's. And—say—what do you know about this man Neilson?"
"Oh, nothin' at all. Why?"
"If you fellows is prospectin', Jeffery Neilson is a first-class man to stay away from—and his understrapers, too—Ray Brent and Chan Heminway. But they're out of town right now. They skinned out all in a bunch a few weeks ago—and I can't tell you what kind of a scent they got."
Ezram felt cold to the marrow of his bones. He glanced covertly at Ben; fortunately his partner was busy among the supplies and was not listening to this conversation. Yet likely enough it was a false alarm! Doubtless the ugly possibility that occurred to him had no justification whatever in fact. Nevertheless, he couldn't restrain the question that was at his lips.
"You don't know where they went, do you?" he asked.
"Not exactly. They took up this creek here a ways, through Spruce Pass, and over to Yuga River—the country that kind of a crazy old chap named Hiram Melville, who died here a few weeks ago, has always prospected."
The stranger marvelled that his old listener should have suddenly gone quite pale.
VIII
Ezram had only a moment's further conversation with his new friend. He put two or three questions—in a rather curious, hushed voice—and got his answer. Yes, it was true that the shortest way to go to the Yuga River was to follow up the creek by which he was now standing. It was only out of the way to go into Snowy Gulch: they would have to come back to this very point. And yes, a pedestrian, carrying a light pack, could make much better time than a horseman with pack animals. The horses could go no faster than a walk, and the time required to sling packs and care for the animals cut down the day's march by half.
These things learned, Ezram strolled over to his young partner. And at that moment he revealed the possession of a talent that neither he nor any of his friends had ever suspected. The stage had lost an artist of no mean ability when Ezra Melville had taken to the cattle business. Outwardly, to the last, little lines about his lips and eyes, he was his genial, optimistic, droll old self. His eye twinkled, his face beamed in the gray stubble, his voice was rollicking with the fun of life the same as ever. And like Pagliacci in his masque there was not the slightest exterior sign of the fear and despair that chilled his heart.
"What have you and your poor victim been talking about, all this time?" Ben asked.
"Oh, just a gab-fest—a tat-i-tat as you'd call it. But you know, Ben, I've got a idea all a-sudden." Ben straightened, lighted his pipe, and prepared to listen.
"This old boy tells me that we'd save just twelve miles by striking off front here, instead of goin' into town. Snowy Gulch is six miles, and we have to come back to this very place. What's the use of goin' into town at all?"
"Good heavens, Ez? Have you forgotten we've got to get supplies? And your brother's gun—and his dog?"
"How do you know he's got a dog?"
"He said a pup, didn't he? But it may be an elephant for all I know. Of course, we've got to go on in."
"Yes, I know—one of us has. But, Ben, it seems to me that one of us ought to strike off now and figure out the way and sort of get located. One of us could take a little food and a couple of blankets and make it through in less than a day. Half a day, almost. Then we could have the cabin all ready, and everything laid out for to begin work. He could blaze any dim spots in the trail and save time for the other feller, comin' with the horses."
"Oh, it would be all right," Ben began rather doubtfully. "I don't see that much is to be gained by it. But I'll strike off on foot, if you want me to."
Ezram's mind was flashing with thoughts like lightning, and his answer was ready. "Ben, if you don't mind, I'll do that," he said. "I can get along without gazin' at the sky-scrapers of Snowy Gulch, and to tell the truth, that twelve miles of extra walkin' don't appeal to me one bit. I'd as soon have you tend to all the things in town."
"But you'd get a ride, if you waited—"
"I hate a horse, anyway—"
"You've surely changed a lot since the war."
"I was thrown off not long ago—and have been leery of the dum things ever since. I'd walk, sooner than ride, even if I did have a horse. So you roll me that big Hudson Bay blanket and give me a couple of day's rations. I'll make a pack for my back that I can't feel. Then you strike off into town."
Without especial enthusiasm Ben agreed. Ezram gave a great sigh of satisfaction. He had put through the deal: Ben's secret thought was that Ezram's curiosity—always a pronounced trait with the old—had mastered him, and he could not wait longer to explore the mine. Not one glimpse of the truth as to Ezram's real reason for desiring to push on alone as much as occurred to him.
Ezram was wholly deliberate. He knew what waited him on arrival at his brother's claim. Jeffery Neilson and his gang had assembled there, had already jumped the claim just as his brother had warned him that they would do; and coolly and quietly he had resolved to face them alone. They were desperate men, not likely to be driven from the gold by threats or persuasion only. But there was no law in his life, no precept in his code, whereby he could subject his young partner to the risk.
It was true that the desire to arrive on the scene at the earliest possible moment had been a factor in his decision. One of them could hurry on, unimpeded by the pack animals, and the other must linger to secure their supplies; and there could really be no question, in Ezram's mind, which should go and which should stay. He had known perfectly that if Ben had realized the true need for haste, he would never have submitted so tamely to Ezram's will. The old man knew Wolf Darby. The strong dark eyes in the lean, raw-boned face reassured him as to this knowledge. Ben would go too, if he knew the truth. Likely he would insist on going alone.
Ezram had decided the whole thing in a flash, realizing that a lone pedestrian would be practically as effective in dealing with the usurpers as two horsemen, impeded by the pack animals. If they didn't shoot to kill at first sight of him Ezram would have time in