Claim Number One

  CHAPTER XIX

  CROOK MEETS CROOK

  Slavens was saddling his horse before his tent, his mind still runningon the newcomer who had pitched to the south of him, evidently while hewas away. He was certain that he would have seen the tent if it had beenthere before he left, for it was within plain view of the road.

  Well, thought the doctor, whoever the stranger was, whatever he hoped orexpected of that place, he was welcome to, for all that Slavens enviedhim. As for Slavens himself, he had run his race and won it by a nose;and now that he was putting down the proceeds to appease what he held asblackmail, he had no very keen regrets for what he was losing. He hadpassed through that. There would be the compensation----

  But of that no matter; that must come in its time and place, and ifnever, no matter. He would have the ease of conscience in knowing thathe had served her, and served her well.

  His horse was restive and frisky in the cool of the morning, making astir among the stones with its feet. Slavens spoke sharply to theanimal, bending to draw up the girth, the stirrup thrown across thesaddle.

  "Now, you old scamp, I'll take this friskiness out of you in a minute,"said he, giving the horse a slap under the belly as he reached to pullthe stirrup down.

  He drew back with a start as his eyes lifted above the saddle, and hishand dropped to the butt of the revolver which he carried so clumsily inhis belt. Hun Shanklin was standing there facing him, not above a dozenfeet away, grinning dubiously, but with what he doubtless meant for anexpression of friendliness.

  The old gambler threw out his hands with a sidewise motion eloquent ofemptiness, lifting his shoulders in a quick little jerk, as if to say,"Oh, what's the use?"

  "Kind of surprised you; didn't I, Doc?" he asked, coming nearer.

  "What do you want here?" demanded Slavens harshly.

  "Well, not trouble," replied Shanklin lightly. "If I'd come over forthat, I guess I could 'a' started it before now."

  "Yes, I suppose you could," admitted Slavens, watching him distrustfullyand feeling thankful, somehow, that the horse was between them.

  "I saw you up on the hill after your horse, so I thought I'd come overand let you know I was around," said Shanklin. "Thought I'd tell youthat I ain't holdin' any grudges if you ain't."

  "I don't see where you've got any call to. I never took a crack at youwith a blackjack in the dark!"

  "No, you didn't, friend," Shanklin agreed in his old easy, persuasiveway. "And I never done it to you. You owe the honorable Mr. Jerry Boylefor the red mark you've got on your forrid there. I'll own up that Ihelped him nail you up and dump you in the river; but I done it becauseI thought you was finished, and I didn't want the muss around."

  "Well, it will all come out on the day of reckoning, I suppose," saidSlavens, not believing a word the old scamp said.

  He knew that minute, as he had known all the time, that no other handthan Shanklin's had laid him low that night. Of this he was as certainin his own mind as if he had seen the gambler lift hand for the blow.Boyle had no motive for it up to that time, although he had been quickto turn the circumstance to his advantage.

  "I thought Boyle'd dickered you out of this claim before now," saidShanklin, looking around warily.

  "He's down the road here a little piece," replied Slavens testily, "incompany of another friend of yours. You could have seen his tent as youcame over if you'd looked."

  "I just put up my tent last night," Shanklin explained.

  Slavens took hold of his saddle-horn as if to mount, indicating by hisaction that the visit should come to an end. Shanklin, who was not inthe least sensitive on the matter of social rebuffs, did not appear tobe inclined to accept the hint. He shifted his legs, thrusting one ofthem forward in a lounging attitude, and dug in his trousers pocketswith his long, skinny hands.

  "Well, spit it out and have it over with!" snapped Slavens, feeling thatthere was something behind the man's actions to which he had not givenwords.

  "That was a purty good coat I left with you that night," suggestedShanklin, looking up without the slightest stirring of humor in his dryface.

  "You're welcome to it, if that's all," said Slavens.

  "That's all. I was kind of attached to that coat."

  Slavens left him standing there and entered the tent, feeling thatShanklin was as irresponsible morally as a savage. Evidently theinconsequential matter of an attempt at murder should not be allowed tostand between friends, according to the flat-game man's way of viewinglife. It appeared that morning as if Shanklin had no trace of malice inhim on account of the past, and no desire to pursue further hisunderhanded revenge. Conscience was so little trouble to him that hecould sit at meat with a man one hour and stick a knife in his back thenext.

  The coat was under a sack of oats, somewhat the worse for wrinkles anddust. Slavens gave it a shake, smoothed the heaviest of the creases withhis hand, and went out to deliver it to its owner.

  Shanklin was facing the other way, in the direction of his own camp. Hisattitude was in sharp contrast with the easy, lounging posture of a fewmoments before. He was tense and alert, straining forward a little, hislean body poised as if he balanced for a jump. There was a clattering onthe small stones which strewed the ground thickly there, as of somebodyapproaching, but the bulk of the horse was between Slavens and the view,as the doctor stopped momentarily in the door of the low tent.

  Clearing the tent and standing upright, Slavens saw Boyle and Ten-Galloncoming on hurriedly. They had been to Shanklin's camp evidently, lookingfor him. From the appearance of both parties, there was something in thewind.

  Boyle was approaching rapidly, Ten-Gallon trailing a bit, on account ofhis shorter legs perhaps, or maybe because his valor was even brieferthan his wind. Boyle seemed to be grinning, although there was no mirthin his face. His teeth showed between his parted lips; he carried hisright arm in front, crooked at the elbow, his fingers curved.

  Slavens saw that all thought of the coat had gone but of Shanklin'smind. The old gambler did not so much as turn his head. Slavens threwthe coat across his saddle as Boyle came up.

  "Well, what have you got to say to it, you dirty old thief?" demandedBoyle, plunging into the matter as if preliminaries were not neededbetween him and Shanklin.

  "You seem to be doin' the talkin'," returned Shanklin with a show ofcold indifference, although Slavens saw that he watched every movementBoyle made, and more than once in those few seconds the doctor markedHun's sinewy right arm twitch as if on the point of making some swiftstroke.

  Boyle stopped while there was yet a rod between them, so hot with angerthat his hands were trembling.

  "That don't answer me!" he growled, his voice thick in his constrictedthroat. "What have you got to say to the way you double-crossed me, youold one-eyed hellion?"

  "Talk don't hurt, Jerry, unless a man talks too much," Shanklin answeredmildly. "Now, if I wanted to talk, I could mighty near talk a ropearound your little white neck. I know when to talk and when to keepstill."

  "And I know how to jar you loose!" threatened Boyle.

  Shanklin leaned toward the Governor's son never so little, his left handlifted to point his utterance, and opened upon Boyle the most witheringstream of blasphemous profanity that Slavens had ever heard. If thereever was a man who cursed by note, as they used to say, Hun Shanklin wasthat one. He laid it to Boyle in a blue streak.

  "What do I owe you?" he began.

  Then he swung off into the most derogatory comparisons, applications,insulting flagellations, that man ever stood up and listened to. Hisevident motive was to provoke Boyle to some hostile act, so thattwitching right arm might have the excuse for dealing out the deathwhich lay at its finger-ends. Every little while the torrent of abusebroke upon the demand, "What do I owe you?" like a rock in the channel,and then rushed on again without laying hold of the same epithet twice.If a man were looking for a master in that branch of frontier learning,a great opportunity was at hand.

  Boyle leaned against the t
orrent of abuse and swallowed it, his facelosing its fiery hue, blanching and fading as if every word fell on hissenses like the blow of a whip to the back. The Governor's son watchedevery muscle of Shanklin's face as if to read the gambler's intention inhis eye, while his hand, stiff-set and clawlike, hovered within threeinches of his pistol-butt.

  Presently Shanklin stopped, panting like a lizard. Both men stooped alittle lower, leaning forward in their eager watchfulness. Neither ofthem seemed to be conscious that the world held any other object thanhis enemy, crouching, waiting, drawing breath in nostril-dilatinggasps.

  Boyle moved one foot slightly, as if to steady himself for a supremeeffort. A little stone which he dislodged tumbled down the side of afour-inch gully with a noise that seemed the sound of an avalanche. Withthat alarm Shanklin's arm moved swiftly. Like a reflection in a glass,Boyle's arm moved with it.

  Two shots; such a bare margin between them that the ear scarcely couldmark the line. Then one.

  Shanklin, his hands half lifted, his arms crooked at the elbow andextended from his sides, dropped his pistol, his mouth open, as if toutter the surprise which was pictured in his features. He doubled limplyat the knees, collapsed forward, fell upon his face.

  Boyle put his hand to his breast above his heart, pressing it hard; tookit away, turned about in his tracks as if bewildered; swayed sickly,sank to his knees, and fell over to his side with the silent, hopeless,huddling movement of a wild creature that has been shot in the woods.

  Ten-Gallon came from behind the tent, where he had been compressinghimself into a crevice between two boulders. His face was white, anddown it sweat was pouring, drawn from the agony of his base soul. Hewent to the place where Dr. Slavens knelt beside Boyle.

  "Cra-zy Christmas!" gasped he, his mouth falling open. Then again:

  "Cra-zy Christmas!"

  Slavens had gone to Boyle first, because there was something in theutter collapse of Shanklin which told him the man was dead. As hestripped Boyle's clothing off to bare the wound, Slavens orderedTen-Gallon to go and see whether the old gambler had paid his lastloss.

  "I won't touch him! I won't lay a hand on him!" Ten-Gallon refused,drawing back in alarm.

  Boyle was not dead, though Shanklin's bullet had struck him perilouslynear the heart and had passed through his body. With each feeble intakeof breath blood bubbled from the blue mark, which looked like a littlebruise, on his chest.

  "Well, see if you can make a fire, then, and hurry about it! Get somewater on to boil as fast as you can!" Slavens directed the nervelesschief of police.

  Ten-Gallon set about his employment with alacrity while Slavens wentover to Shanklin, turning his face up to the sky. For a little while hestooped over Hun; then he took the gambler's coat from the saddle andspread it over his face. Hun Shanklin was in need of no greater servicethat man could render him.

  Dr. Slavens took off his coat and brought out his instrument-case. Hegave Boyle such emergency treatment as was possible where thegun-fighter lay, and then called Ten-Gallon to help take him into thetent.

  "Lord, he's breathin' through his back!" said Ten-Gallon. "He'll neverlive till we git him to the tent--never in this world, Doc! I knew afeller that was knifed in the back one time till he breathed through hisribs that way, and he----"

  "Never mind," said Slavens. "Take hold of him."

  Ten-Gallon's fire burned briskly, and the water boiled. Dr. Slavenssterilized his instruments in a pan of it, and set about to establishthe drainage for the wound upon which the slender chance of Boyle's lifedepended. Boyle was unconscious, as he had been from the moment he fell.They stretched him on the doctor's cot. With the blankets spreadunderfoot to keep down the dust, the early sun shining in through thelifted flap, Slavens put aside whatever animosity he held against theman and went to work earnestly in an endeavor to save his life.

  Ten-Gallon showed a nervous anxiety to get away. He wanted to go afterhis horse; he wanted to go to Boyle's tent and get breakfast forhimself; and then he pressed the necessity of his presence in Comancheto keep and preserve the peace. But Slavens would not permit him to quitthe tent until he could no longer be of assistance.

  It was not the wounded body of Jerry Boyle that the pot-bellied peaceofficer feared, but the stiffening frame of Hun Shanklin, lying outthere in the bright sun. Every time he looked that way he drew up onhimself, like a snail. At length Slavens gave him permission to leave,charging him to telephone to Meander for the coroner the moment that hearrived in Comanche, and to get word to Boyle's people at the earliestpossible hour.

  There seemed to be nothing for Slavens to do but to forego his trip inquest of Agnes, and sit there in the hope that she would come. Boylecould not be left alone, and Shanklin's body must be brought up out ofthe gully and covered.

  This ran through his mind in erratic starts and blanks as he bent overthe wounded man, listening to his respiration with more of a humane thanprofessional fear that the next breath might tell him of the hemorrhagewhich would make a sudden end of Boyle's wavering and uncertain life.

  Ten-Gallon had been gone but a little while when Slavens heard himclattering back in his heel-dragging walk over the rocks. He appearedbefore the doctor with a lively relief in his face.

  "Some people headin' in here," he announced. "Maybe they'll be of somehelp to you. I hated to go and leave you here alone with thatfeller"--jerking his head toward Shanklin's body--"for I wouldn't trusthim dead no more than I would alive!"

  "All right," said Slavens, scarcely looking up.

  Ten-Gallon appeared to be over his anxiety to leave. He waited in frontof the tent as the sound of horses came nearer.

  "Stop them off there a little way," ordered the doctor. "We don't wantany more dust around here than we can help."

  He looked around for his hat, put it on, and went out, sleeves up, tosee that his order was enforced. Agnes was alighting from a horse as hestepped out. A tall, slight man with a gray beard was demanding ofTen-Gallon what had happened there.

  Relief warmed the terror out of her eyes as Agnes ran forward and caughtDr. Slavens' hand.

  "You're safe!" she cried. "I feared--oh, I feared!"

  A shudder told him what words faltered to name.

  "It wasn't my fight," he told her.

  "This is Governor Boyle," said Agnes, presenting the stranger, who hadstood looking at them with ill-contained impatience, seeing himselfquite forgotten by both of them in that moment of meeting.

  "I am sorry to tell you, sir, that your son is gravely wounded," saidDr. Slavens, driving at once to the point.

  "Where is he?" asked the Governor, his face pale, his throat working asif he struggled with anguish which fought to relieve itself in a cry.

  Dr. Slavens motioned to the tent. The old man went forward, stoppingwhen he saw his unconscious son and the bloody clothing beside the cot.He put his hand to his forehead and stood a moment, his eyes closed.Then he went in and bent over the wounded man.

  A sob of pity rose in Agnes' throat as she watched him and saw the painand affection upon his face. Presently Governor Boyle turned and walkedto the spot where Hun Shanklin's body lay. Without a word, he lifted thecoat from the gambler's face, covered it again, and turned away.

  "Bad company! Bad company!" said he, sadly shaking his head. "How did ithappen, Doctor? You were here? First"--he held up his hand, as if tocheck the doctor's speech--"will he live?"

  "Men have recovered from worse wounds," responded the doctor. "There's achance for him, at least."

  He related, then, the circumstance of the meeting, the brief quarrel,and the fight, Ten-Gallon putting in a word here and there, although histestimony was neither asked nor welcomed.

  "I don't know what the cause of the quarrel was," concluded the doctor."Two days ago I relinquished this claim to your son. He came hereimmediately and took possession."

  "You--you relinquished!" exclaimed Agnes, disappointment in her voice,reproach in her eyes.

  "I am sorry that you relinquished it," s
aid the Governor. "This braveyoung woman rode all the way to my ranch--almost a hundred miles--tosave it to you. I was absent when she arrived, but I set out with her atthe earliest possible moment upon my return. We rode all night lastnight, sir, changing horses in Comanche this morning."

  "I am grateful to you, both of you, for the trouble and fatigue you haveundergone in my behalf. But the case, as your son urged it, sir, wasbeyond temporizing. Perhaps Miss Gates has told you?"

  The Governor nodded curtly, a look of displeasure on his face.

  "I can't believe that Jerry meant it," he protested. "It must have beenone of his jokes."

  "I am sorry, then, that my idea of humor is so widely divergent fromhis!" said Dr. Slavens with deep feeling.

  "Well, he's paid for it. The poor boy has paid for his indiscretion,"said the old man sadly.

  He turned away and went a little space, where he stood as if inmeditation.

  "You promised me that you'd do nothing until you returned and saw me,"Agnes charged. "And I had saved it for you! I had saved it!"

  "You would have been too late," returned the doctor sharply. "Themachinery for your humiliation was already in motion. I doubt whethereven the Governor could have stopped it in another day without a greatdeal of unpleasant publicity for you. Boyle meant to have this piece ofland, and he got it. That's all."

  Ten-Gallon was fooling around the fire. He drew over toward the group asthe Governor came back.

  "Can my son be removed from here?" the old man asked.

  The doctor said that he could not, without practically throwing away hisslender chance for life.

  "Do for him what you can; you seem to be a capable man, sir; you inspireconfidence in me," said the Governor, laying his hand appealingly on thedoctor's shoulder; "and if you can save him, I'll pay you twice whatthis infernal claim was worth to you!"

  "I've done all that can be done for him, without hope or expectation ofreward," said the doctor; "and I'll stick by him to the end, one way oranother. We can care for him here as long as this weather holds, just aswell as they could in a hospital."

  "Well, as far as what this claim's worth goes," put in Ten-Gallon,edging into the conversation, "you don't need to lose any sleep overthat."

  "What do you mean?" demanded Slavens, turning upon him sharply.

  Ten-Gallon stirred the dust with his toe, stooped and picked up an emptyrevolver-cartridge.

  "It ain't worth that!" said he, presenting it in the palm of his hand.

  "I don't know what you're driving at," said the doctor, inclined to walkaway and leave him.

  "I mean that Hun Shanklin queered all of you," said Ten-Gallon. "You hadthe wrong figgers, and you filed on the wrong claim!"

  Pressed for an explanation of how he knew, Ten-Gallon told them that hehad been Shanklin's partner at the beginning, and that Shanklin haddeceived and cheated both him and Boyle.

  "Ah, then he did double-cross my son!" cried the Governor triumphantly,seizing this vindication for the young man's deed with avid eagerness.

  "He sure did," Ten-Gallon agreed; "and he done it right! I know allabout you"--nodding to the doctor--"and what happened to you back ofthat tent in Comanche that night. Shanklin had it in for you ever sinceyou showed up his game the night that sucker feller was goin' to putdown that wad of money. He'd been layin' for you, one way and another,for a couple of days or so. You walked right into his hand that night."

  "I seemed to," admitted Slavens with bitter recollection.

  "Shanklin knew about copper in these rocks over here----"

  "So it's copper?" said Slavens, unable to restrain his words.

  "Copper; that's what it is," nodded Ten-Gallon. "But it ain't on thisclaim, and I'll show that in a minute, too. Hun had been writin' toJerry about it, tryin' to git up a company to pay him for what he knew,so they could locate the man that drawed Number One there, see? Well,Hun, he'd known about that copper a long time; he could go to it withhis eyes shut. So he got the description of the land as soon as thesurvey maps was out, and he offered to sell the location for fivethousand dollars. He had samples of the ore, and it run rich, and it_is_ rich, richest in this state, I'm here to tell you, gentlemen.

  "But Jerry wouldn't give him no five thousand for what he knew. So Hunhe got some other fellers on the string, and him and me was partners onthe deal and was goin' to split even on account of some things I knewand was to keep under my katy.

  "Well, Hun sold the figgers of that land to Jerry for five hundreddollars in the end, and he sold it to them other fellers for the same.When it come out that you was Number One, Doc--and us fellers knew thatin the morning of the day of the drawin', for we had it fixed withMong--Hun he tells Jerry that you'll never sell out for no reasonableprice.

  "'We'll have to soak that feller,' he says, 'and git him out of theway.' Jerry he agreed to it, and they had men out after you all that dayand night, but they didn't git a chance at you. Then you walked rightinto old Hun's hand. Funny!" commented Ten-Gallon stopping there tobreathe.

  "Very!" said the doctor, putting his hand to the tender scar on hisforehead.

  He pushed back his hat and turned to the Governor.

  "Very funny!" said he.

  "Of course, Jerry, he was winded some when you put in your bill thereahead of him and Peterson that morning and filed on the claim he had itall framed up to locate the Swede feller on. Jerry telephoned over toComanche and found out from Shanklin how you got the numbers, and thenhe laid out to start a fire under you and git you off. Well, he done it,didn't he?"

  Ten-Gallon leered up at Slavens with some of his old malevolence andofficial hauteur in his puffy face.

  "Go on with your story, and be careful what charges you lay against myson!" commanded the Governor sharply.

  Ten-Gallon was not particularly squelched or abashed by the rebuke. Hewinked at Agnes as if to express a feeling of secret fellowship which heheld for her on account of things which both of them might reveal ifthey saw fit.

  "Shanklin, he closed up his game in Comanche three or four days ago andwent over to Meander," Ten-Gallon resumed. "He never had split with meon that money he got for the numbers of this claim out of Jerry and thatother crowd. So I follered him. Yesterday morning, you know, the landleft over from locatin' them that had drawed claims was throwed open toanybody that wanted to file on it.

  "Well, the first man in the line was that old houn' that's layin' overthere with his toes turnin' cold. He filed on something, and when Icollared him about the money, he throwed me down. He said he sold thenumbers of land that didn't have no more copper on it than the palm ofhis hand, and he said he'd just filed on the land that had the mines. Heshowed me the papers; then he hopped his horse and come on down here."

  "Incredible!" exclaimed the Governor.

  "It was like him," Slavens corroborated. "He was a fox."

  "I was goin' to take a shot at him," bragged Ten-Gallon, "but he was toofur ahead of me. He had a faster horse than mine; and when I got herelast night he was already located on that claim. The copper mine's overthere where the old feller's tent stands, I tell you. They ain't enoughof it on this place to make a yard of wire."

  "And you carried the story of Shanklin's deception and fraud to my son,"nodded the Governor, fixing a severe eye on Ten-Gallon, "and he soughtthe gambler for an explanation?"

  "Well, he was goin' to haul the old crook over the fire," admittedTen-Gallon, somewhat uneasy under the old man's eye.

  The Governor walked away from them again in his abstracted, self-centeredway, and stood looking off across the troubled landscape. Dr. Slavensstepped to the tent to see how the patient rested, and Ten-Gallon gaveAgnes another wink.

  "Comanche's dwindlin' down like a fire of shavin's," said he. "Nobodycouldn't git hurt there now, not even a crawlin' baby."

  Indignation flushed her face at the man's familiarity. But she reasonedthat he was only doing the best he knew to be friendly.

  "Are you still chief of police there?" she asked.

/>   "I'm marshal now," he replied. "The police force has been done away withby the mayor and council."

  "Well then, I still have doubt about the safety of Comanche," sheobserved, turning from him.

  Governor Boyle approached Ten-Gallon and pointed to Hun Shanklin'sbody.

  "You must do something to get that carcass out of camp right away," hesaid. "Isn't there a deputy coroner at Comanche?"

  "The undertaker is," said Ten-Gallon, drawing back at the prospect ofhaving to lay hands on the body of the man whom he feared in death as hehad feared him in life.

  "Send him over here," Governor Boyle directed.

  Ten-Gallon departed on his mission, and the Governor took one of thetrodden blankets from in front of the tent and spread it over Shanklin'sbody, shrouding it completely. Dr. Slavens had lowered the flap of thetent to keep the sun from the wounded man's face. When he came out,Agnes met him with an inquiring look.

  "He's conscious," said the doctor. "The blow of that heavy bulletknocked the wind out of him for a while."

  "Will he--lapse again?" asked the Governor, balancing between hope andfear.

  "It isn't likely. You may go in and speak to him now if you want to. Buthe must keep still. A little exertion might start a hemorrhage."

  Jerry Boyle lay upon his back, his bloodless face toward them, as theygathered noiselessly in the door of the tent. His eyes were standingopen, great and questioning, out of his pallor, nothing but the animalquality of bewilderment and fear in their wide stare.

  Governor Boyle went in and dropped to his knees beside the cot. Dr.Slavens followed hastily, and placed his hand on the wounded man'sbreast.

  "You may listen," said he; "but keep still."

  "Don't even try to whisper," admonished the Governor, taking his son'shand between his own.

  "That's all right, Governor," replied the young man, his face quickeningwith that overrunning little crinkling, like wind over water, which washis peculiar gift for making his way into the hearts of women and men,unworthy as he was.

  "Be still!" commanded the old man. "I know what happened. There'snothing to say now."

  "Did I get him?" whispered Jerry, turning his head a little and lookingeagerly into his father's face.

  The Governor placed his hand over his son's mouth, silencing the youngman with a little hissing sound, like a mother quieting her babe.

  Agnes turned away, the disgust which she felt for this savage spirit ofthe man undisguised in her face. Dr Slavens cautioned the Governoragain.

  "If he says another word, you'll have to leave him," said he. "This isone case where talk will turn out anything but cheap."

  He joined Agnes, and together they walked away from the scene ofviolence and death.

  "You're tired to death," said he. "I'm going to take possession ofBoyle's tent down there for you, and you've got to take a long sleep.After that we'll think about the future."

  She walked on beside him, silent and submissive, interposing noobjection to his plan. They found the tent very well equipped; hestarted to leave her there to her repose. She stood in the door with herhat in her hand, her hair in disorder, dust over her dress and shoes.

  "Could you send word to Smith by the stage this morning and ask him tobring my things--tent and everything--down here?" she asked.

  "Then you're not planning to go back there?" he asked, his heart jumpingwith hope.

  She shook her head, smiling wanly.

  "I can't bear the thought of it," said she.