# Old Misery/Chapter 10

pp. 274-305.

### CHAPTER VI
#### “LIKE A WOLF I ROAM”

THE sun required yet another hour to climb to the crest of the Sierra as Old Misery limped up the narrow, rocky channel leading to the basin. He carried a large pack and two rifles; and he was glad to rest for a bit when he reached the lower end of the basin. The glow in the eastern sky revealed the camp of the three men and the girl—four mounds of blankets on the grass near the tiny mountain stream.
A larger mound at some distance from the sleeper, stirred and rose to four feet; and Bill Williams came sniffling toward his master. The mountain man advanced, threw down his pack and guns, fondled his pet's head and gave him a chew of tobacco. It was the girl Maria who first sensed his approach. She sat up and threw aside her blankets, then rose and ran to meet him.
“Senor Comandante comes back—without my grandfather,” she whispered.
“He won't come back any more,” he bluntly announced. “Rubbed out, fighting with the breed, Ching-a-ling.”
“Madre de Dios! What words to bring me!” she hissed. “Then the granddaughter goes! She has eyes. She has a knife. She is young—not a poor old blind man.”
“Ching-a-ling is dead. Your grandpap did for him after gitting his own quittance. The camp in Grass Holler is filled with men, looking for you and the younker.”
“He keeled Vesequio? Ah, that is good! Is it not? My grandfather was an old man. He would die ver' soon, keeled by the years. Many times he has said each year is so much more weight on his shoulders. Rest his soul! He struck me many times. But I forgeeve. He was a ver' brave old caballero. He keeled the man who insult me. The men below? Can they find us here?”
“We must be leaving as soon as we eat,” he told her. “By sun-up they'll be spreading out and hunting. They can't find us by follering any trail; they might stumble upon us. Nearly walked my legs off gitting here. Nevada City has started posses after Murieta. This time they'll get him. Just as sure as if he'd dreamed of snakes, or the moon. Mexico is the place for you.”
“Pouf! Never will they catch Don Joaquin Murieta. If they catch me he will come and take me from them.”
“If they catch you they might stretch your slim neck. Murieta couldn't free you. The younker must go over the ridge. They're hunting him as well as you.”
Weymouth Mass stirred uneasily and opened his eyes.
“Back again,” he rumbled, and his deep, booming voice brought Gilbert from his dreams.
Old Misery briefly repeated what he had told the girl and directed that food be prepared and a start made at once. Weymouth Mass did not seem to apprehend any danger and was loath to leave the basin.
“We've begun uncovering the top soil and we've found one small nest of nuggets already. I put them in a bag for Gilbert.”
“But the men in Coloma!” cried Gilbert. “What will they be thinking? I'm branded as a thief by this time! I can't go home. I can't go anywhere under my own name. I'd rather stay and risk capture!”
“Easy and simple as lifting the back-fat out of a buf'ler,” declared Old Misery. “I've fetched a good rifle for you. We'll pick up some hosses after we git over the ridge. And a pack-mule. Once we git 'em we'll own all outdoors. Turn mountain man and live as you was made to live. Walk along the Rockies and see things. Work only for yourself. No one west the Mississippi will care a hoot to know your name or hist'ry. I'll make you into a prime mountain man.”
Gilbert stared with defeated eyes at the mountain man.
Misery eagerly continued:
“I know all the ground. We'll find Tom Tobin and have some fun. I'm getting old and cantank'rous. You can look after me a trifle.”
“Senor Gilbert can not go East. He can not stay in California. Let him go to Mexico where he will be called a great man for helping Don Murieta,” softly urged the girl.
Old Misery glanced with worried eyes from one to the other, and conceded:
“Here is his new rifle and a small bag of nuggets. It is for him to say.”
The Vermonter shook his head dismally.
“I can't leave the United States. If I must lose myself, give up my name, and be thought a thief, at least I'll stay in the country.”
“Spoken like a mountain man!” cried Old Misery. “And all hell can't drive you out the Rockies, or from the plains. And you'll meet lots of folks who don't wear the names first saddled on 'em. Plenty of room to begin a new life. My offer of five dollars a day still holds. You've earned it most reg'lar right up to now. We'll notch a stick and bimeby you'll have 'nough money to square off that debt. You can take it back East and let on you was captured by Injuns and just managed to bu'st loose. Tell 'em you stumbled on the Lost Cabin mine and dug 'nough gold to make up for what the reds took from you afore you could carry it to Coloma.”
“If he could only stay here for a while we'd soon have enough gold to make up for his mistake,” spoke up Weymouth Mass.
“We're staying just long enough to eat and pack the mule. You folks will take the mule. Double-Time 'n' me are off over the ridge and down the Truckee River to the immigrant road. Rest of you follow along the ridge, keeping down to 'bout this level. Keep well up when you reach the head of the San Joaquin; for posses will be combing the valley. Maria, I'd like to have you take Bill Williams along with you. Some greenhorn, or Pike, will shoot him if he goes with me. He's good medicine to have. He's mato-wapiya, or grizzly-bear medicine.”
“He is a ver' gran' caballero,” quickly agreed the girl. “He shall go with me to Mexico. No one will shoot the friend of Ana Benites down there.”
Sailor Ben woke up, staggered to his feet and hoarsely growled:
“Stand by to repel boarders. What's the lookout see?”
“We're off to Mexico. No more digging till we come back,” Weymouth Mass informed him.
This intelligence seemed to please the sailor. Chanting an old sea-song deep in his hairy throat, he endeavored to forward the breakfast by collecting bits of dry fuel. After giving orders that only the driest of the fuel be used Old Misery went to the lower end of the basin and stood watch while the breakfast was being prepared.
He was glad to be leaving the coast, and yet he had been there many pleasant months. He stared long and intently down toward the broad valley of the Sacramento and recalled the days when New Helvetia, Sutter's post, controlled what was now the north half of the state. He had seen Yerba Buena magically change from a sleepy hamlet to a mighty city. There was pathos in the thought of leaving it all, and yet he was glad to go.
He had seen Sacramento spring up along the marsh of the river and become a metropolis in itself, and even worse for rats than San Francisco. He had seen the first steamboat, Captain Leideshorff, enter the bay from Sitka. He traveled the American River when it was called Rio de los Americanos. He could have bought vara lots in 'forty-seven for fifty dollars; and smaller ones in 'fifty-three, much farther out in the bay, brought sixteen thousand dollars.
He remembered the deserted appearance of the city in May, 'forty-eight, when all the active-bodied had hurried to the valley of the Sacramento. There was the Apollo, anchored in the cove some distance from the beach; and he had seen the city suddenly expand and surround it. He had waded waist deep, when the tide was in, between California Street and Rincon Point; and had returned after a short absence to find the hills shoveled into the cove and a business center sprung up where he had fought the tide.
So rapidly had the changes come that he had the sense of living many years on the coast. Now the era was finished, and he was glad to go. If melancholy crept in it was in the nature of regret that the country was being so thickly settled.
“I'd be crowded out in another season even if I didn't have to go now,” he mused. “One good thing 'bout the Rockies. Never git crowded.”
Then his reverie was broken by a thread of smoke far below. At first he believed it was a camp-fire. Then another thread, close to the first, showed above the forest crown; and a third. The three cabins in Grass Hollow were being destroyed.
“They feel that bitter ag'in' me they'll burn innercent log huts,” he muttered.
The three smokes told him the posses would be leaving the hollow, and he hastened back to the fire just as Maria was about to call to him.
The breakfast was hurriedly eaten as the feeling of being hunted was now strong in the mind of each, the mountain man excepted. The mule was packed, and as the little procession moved higher up the ridge before swinging south Old Misery walked beside Weymouth Mass and directed him to keep well east of Moquelumne Hill, Columbia and Sonora, so as to retire over the ridge into the Mono Lake country if threatened by a posse.
“I know the country. They can't catch us,” assured Weymouth Mass.
“If Senor Comandante will tell Senor Weymouth to leave me and Beel Williams in the San Joaquin Valley, I can find my way to Corral Hollow Canon and look out for myself,” spoke up the girl.
“And be caught offhand,” replied the mountain man. “That's one of the places the posses is aiming for. Weymouth, you deliver her in Mexico. Then if she comes back I'll be mighty sorry for her, but I'll have done my part. Can't you understand, Maria, that that devil of a friend of yours has played his game out and ain't got any more chips left than young Double-Time here had when he carried a fight to your monte-table? Don't your medicine tell you he'll lose his head just as sure as Ching-a-ling lost his? He'll never live to see the next rains. Californy is tired of his ways.”
She laughed incredulously. Joaquin Murieta was the champion of her people, taking bloody reprisals for the countless wrongs inflicted by gold-hunters on Mexican inhabitants of what had been so recently a part of Mexico. He could not be killed. Yet Captain Love, veteran of the Mexican War, already had been authorized by the Legislature to raise a company of twenty-five rangers and eliminate the scourge. Even as she was deriding Old Misery's prophecy the hooded shape was standing close to the mountain bandit and was about to stretch forth a bony arm and touch his shoulder and motion for him to come away from all earthly affairs.
The travel through the eastern opening of the basin and up the ridge was rough, as there was no semblance of even an aboriginal path, and the fugitives' progress was slow. At midday they halted in a little valley, thick with firs and pines, and ate cooked meat.
“We'll split the trail here,” gruffly announced Old Misery. “If you're ever in the Rockies, Weymouth, look me up. Ben will go back to sea after the women folks in the towns have got all his gold. Don't forgit the ledge where Bill Williams slept. I've cracked out two hundred dollars a day with a hammer from that rotten rock. Could 'a' taken out a thousand if I'd wanted to. Maria, you be a good girl. Don't chase 'round with robbers.”
“Senor Comandante, I told Senor Gilbert's name in Grass Valley.”
“I know it. You knew I knowed it. But keep out of monte places. Don't fight against the law. My new medicine tells me you can be happy if you want to be.”
The girl seized his hand and embarrassed him by losing self-control and weeping.
“Come, come,” he mumbled. “Never'll do, you young streak of scarlet. When I'm down Mexico-way I'll drop in and say howdy.”
She released his hand and remained silent. Old Misery said good-by to Sailor Ben and then patted Bill Williams' head, but said nothing. Turning back, he fished a long plug of tobacco from his shirt and gave it to Weymouth, saying:
“Three good-sized chaws a day. When Maria gits home she'll remember Bill's a mountain man and hankers for it. Come along, younker. We're killing too much time.”
Gilbert shook hands with the two men and then gave his hand to the girl.
“Good-by, Senor Gilbert. Luck is in your face. Is it not? You will be ver' happy some day. I am ver' sorry I told your name. But if I was angry again I might tell it. The senorita back in the East would understan'.”
“Good-by, Maria. I'll always remember you kindly. You're to blame for nothing. I was just a fool; what Misery calls 'heyoka.'”
“Come, come,” hoarsely prompted the mountain man. “I've given the pipe and we've sung the travel-song. We're Big Shields and pitch our lodges forth in the Kiowy camping-circle. We have the care of gadombitsonhi and will count many coups. Mustn't lose no more time, younker.”
And with this concluding farewell he struck up the ridge and never once glanced back. Not until within a few miles of the Truckee River road did he halt and explain their whereabouts to his gloomy companion.
“You won't know it's a road when you see it,” he ran on. “So we won't take it yet a while. They may have men watching it for the hoss-thieves, and I'd hate to have you scooped up by mistake. We'll camp here and take a look at things in the morning. Once down t'other side I'll have to buy or steal some hosses from fellers that stole 'em over this side the ridge. Hope they won't forgit Bill's terbacker. I'd ruther turned him into the woods, but he'd make for the first man he saw, being that lonesome like, and the man would shoot him, being that blind he couldn't tell a reg'lar mountain man of a b'ar from a common grizzly. Well, well. Living seems to be made up of quitting doing things and beginning new things.
“You just stick along with me, younker. If you hanker for gold I know places where you can find it easy. Lots of it. There's the Snake River country. There's the Bitter Root country. Lawd! I've scuffed my feet over dozens of rich placer-mines, but I never was fool 'nough to take more'n what I needed for whisky, powder 'n' lead and terbacker.”
Gilbert had no heart for talk. Mountains of gold could not compensate him for being a nameless wanderer. He had jumped off the earth. He could only say:
“You've been very kind to me. I've been a nuisance to you. Everything I ever planned to do is ended. You're the only one I care to travel with. I'll try to learn mountain ways so as not to be too much of a bother.”
On the crest of the Sierra Gilbert had been permitted to stand at sunrise and gaze on two worlds. For a little time he forgot his pygmy affairs in wondering at the immensity of the panorama. From the north paraded the bewildering procession of peaks. In the west beyond the timbered foot-hills were the shadowy plains of the Sacramento. Ahead of them, already gilded by the promise of a new day, stretched forest and lakes and barren wastes. Old Misery eagerly pointed toward the Humboldt Mountains and insisted that his companion could see a faint blue line, but Gilbert only saw the dazzling light of the rising sun.
They took their time in following down the eastern slopes. They camped in wood-enclosed valleys. The mountain man shot deer, and they spent a day smoking and drying the meat; this to save their staple supplies. Gilbert became accustomed to the shadowy forms of wolves furtively accompanying them and learned to give them no heed. One day Old Misery shot a cougar from a tree. Gilbert, supposing he had fired at a bird, was much startled when the tawny body crashed to the ground.
Old Misery's spirits were those of a boy as they reached the lower valleys. Gilbert, now convinced he could not rearrange his fate, felt a leaden weight in his heart, but was spared the hysteria of uncertainty. California and committees were infinitely removed. Fear could no longer dog him. He endeavored to be a good traveling companion.
The second day after leaving the Truckee the mountain man announced:
“High time to hunt a Mormon station and buy a mule and some supplies. Two horses, if we can git 'em. Two seasons ago there was a log trading-station five miles from here. May not be kept up, or the trader may be gone as it's too early for the immigrant trade to come in. You're gitting to be a good shot—at game. Bimeby you can try your hand on a moving target—Injuns.
“If you're chased by Injuns never try to hide up in bushes or woods. They'll sneak in and have your ha'r afore you know it. Break for open country and wait for 'em to come up. Sp'ils the best man's nerve to run away. Halt, throw your hoss and tie him, or shoot him. Lacking a hoss, throw up a little ridge of dirt with your knife. Even five or six inches makes you feel better.
“Never git excited when you see 'em come piling down. Never hurry. Make your first shot count. They'll try to scare hell out of you by howling and yowling. Just howl back at 'em. You'll find a big band of 'em will ride round you for hours, a-whooping, but not caring to rush in so long as your gun's loaded. They don't like to tackle mountain men. They've l'arned they have to pay too high a price, and they know they won't git much truck.
“What they hanker for most is fat wagon-trains, filled with greenhorns and storegoods. Always remember the Injun thinks different than white men. Let a dozen white men go into a bloody fight and they will all know some of their number will be rubbed out, but each man thinks he's the one that's coming through alive. Injun thinks just t'other way. Each one thinks his name's on every bullet. Aim your rifle at a line of fifty Injuns and every buck will go over the side of his pony, thinking he's your meat if he don't duck. Still, there's lots of Injuns I'd tie to quicker'n I would to most white men.”
“I'm afraid they'd find me easy game,” sighed Gilbert.
“Not after you've had one or two smart fusses with 'em. Now the Utes ain't any good on the plains, but in their mountains they're all devils. Mebbe we'll have a fracas with 'em going east and you can have a chance to git your hand in. But it would be better to break you in on open ground. Still, we can't have everything as we want it.”
Gilbert said nothing. He was filled with gruesome forebodings. Old Misery took out the buckskin bag and stared thoughtfully at the manganese discolorations. The resemblance to the pine-clad ridge north of Grass Hollow was very strong. For some minutes he stared and stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“What do you see?” asked Gilbert, trying to simulate interest. To him one piece of rock was like any other piece of rock.
“Tunkan, the Stone God, is trying to tell me something. Reckon I've got it. Yep. That must be it, or there wouldn't be any need for the medicine to speak. It says we prob'ly will be in for a fuss but will come out of it all right. That's good 'nough for me any time. Wouldn't Tom Tobin like to be here! Damn little runt! Said I bit him!”
Their course next led through broken country that was less heavily timbered than the California slopes. There was the suggestion of sterility farther east. Gilbert could not discover any trace of path or trail, but Old Misery proceeded with the confidence of one walking a New England highway. He came to a halt in a shallow valley that was hemmed about with ragged evergreens. Near by was a low building of logs which Gilbert learned was the trading-house.
“Empty. No one to home,” mused the mountain man.
“We'll camp here to-night and start hunting for a Mormon station to-morrer.”
Scattered around the log house was abundant testimony of preceding seasons' activities in the shape of cart bodies, wheels, axle-trees, broken harness, picks and shovels. This débris extended in a melancholy windrow to the foot of the first slope. Gilbert could only liken it to a sea-coast strewn with wreckage after a northeast gale, the wagon-trains being the ships and this first slope the reef, or rocky shore, on which they had foundered. But what surprised him were several undamaged wagons.
As if guessing his thoughts Old Misery explained:
“We'd see the same thing if we'd crossed from the head of the Tuolumne to the head of the Walker. Son or a traders have a station there. Immigrants find their wagons are too heavy when they come this far, or their stock is played out. They shift to lighter wagons, or use pack-animals. They strike into the plains with a big outfit and begin to leave things behind afore they make Great Salt Lake.
“From Salt Lake on they keep throwing stuff away. I've seen stations chuck full of grub and goods that's been picked up where the greenhorns had to toss 'em aside. Sometimes they have to dump out small hills of flour and then pay a mighty big price for it when they hit these foot-hills. What they have to sell ain't worth nothing, but when they want to buy from a station it's worth its weight in dust.
“A train will pull in here with only half the stock needed to fetch it over the ridge; or with their hosses 'n' cattle played out. Trader buys at his own price, sells at his own price. And so it goes; white folks robbing white folks in trade. A Injun won't do that to t'other Injun. If he's at war he'll kill and sculp; but he won't charge him dollar a pound for poor flour just 'cause t'other Injun's got the dollar and is starving.
“If there's any stores left in that place I'll take what we want and leave 'nough nuggets to pay. Then we'll hunt for a Mormon station, foller the Carson to the Sink and hit the Humboldt road and pass north of Great Salt Lake.
“We can save couple hundred miles—if we was in a hurry to git to anywhere in 'ticular—by taking the Hastings Cut-Off. Somehow I always think of the Donner party when I travel that road. They come out that way and got lost, or held up, or something, and reached the Sierra too late. Snow held 'em back. Starved. The camp where I shot the panther (Reno) was where they waited four days for two of their men to fetch grub from over the ridge, from Sutter's rancho. Wagons scattered over several miles round Truckee Lake and trapped in five feet of snow. Some folks call it Donner Lake since then. I went with the third relief party; hell of a time gitting to what was left alive of 'em.
“John Stark, a giant of a man, was with us. He carried two of the starved immigrants on his back at a time. His father was in Kentucky when old Boone was raising Cain with the Injuns. Tamsen Donner was one of the pluckiest women I ever see. She sent her children out, but wouldn't leave her dying husband.
“After he cashed in she tried it afoot and made seven miles afore pegging out. And only forty miles was 'tween that outfit and warmth and grub' Marysville was named after Mary Murphy, one of 'em that fetched through over the ridge. She married Charles Covil laud. First called New Mecklenburg, trading-post of two 'dobe houses. Then called Yubaville; then the name it now has.”
This recital did not tend to elevate Gilbert's spirits. He was filling in terrible details as his companion talked. He was glad he had not known he was camping where the Donners had camped. He wondered what tragedies the shallow valley had to relate.
It was very quiet. He would have welcomed the howl of a wolf as in silence they advanced to the trading-house. The place was deserted, and there was a lock on the door. The last did not impress Gilbert as being unusual. Men locked their stores in the East.
Old Misery walked around the building and even strolled to the edge of the growth behind it. He found where a number of horses had grazed.
“Hosses been here not long ago,” he mused.
Gilbert attached no significance to this statement. The mountain man fumbled his beard and swept his gaze slowly over the surrounding circle of evergreens and then back to the empty house, and surprised his friend by deciding:
“We'll strike out for the Carson.”
“But not to-night,” said Gilbert; “it's too near sunset. We can camp here. Perhaps the storekeeper will return. We must get some powder even if we can't get a mule.”
Old Misery produced the buckskin bag and peered inside at the medicine-rock and studied it thoughtfully.
“I'm feeling wakan witshasha,” he muttered. “I'd never budge a inch if I was alone. Trouble is, younker, I can't figger if my medicine covers both of us, or just me. That's the hell of it. If you was Tobin, and even if you wasn't covered, I'd say stick and have some fun.”
This was unintelligible to Gilbert. He knew only his companion was given to superstitious vagaries. He knew that his legs were tired and that here was the companionship at least of a white man's house; and the sun would soon be slipping down the western slopes of the Sierra.
“No sense in walking in the dark,” he urged. “I'll build a fire in front of the cabin. Maybe you can bag some small game. If you can't we have plenty of provisions.”
“A fuss with me coming through it all right,” mumbled the mountain man, scowling at the log house. “Must mean both of us. Wouldn't be 'all right' for me if it didn't. Still a red medicine can be slippery's hell; like a Dakota peace-pipe. It'll do just as it says, but sometimes you'll be fooled in reading it. Take a pipe that's rigged out like a peace-pipe and you can swear the Injuns will stick by it if it's all reg'lar. And they will.
“But if a figger of a snake is scratched along the stem and under the feathers it ain't a peace-pipe and don't 'mount to a damn. Now I'd give a heap to know if any snake is hid under what this Tunkan rock seems to be promising. Well, we'll go back to the house and peek through the winders. White folks have been here this season. It's too early to fetch trade-goods here. And if they're inside and any one wants to steal 'em a lock won't stop the thief. Wagon-trains won't be pulling in for a long time.”
Now that they were at the front of the house Gilbert experienced a revulsion of feeling and wished they were on their way to the Carson. Without any discernible reason he felt uneasy. There had been nothing definite in his companion's words to occasion alarm, and yet he felt as if something evil was about to happen. He set it down to the lengthening shadows, the quiet of the fir-fringed hollow and the fact the log house was deserted. One small window in the end of the building and one beside the door were fitted with glass. The others were covered by stout shutters. He remarked on it, and Old Misery said the glass had been obtained from some wagon-train that had packed the useless stuff across the plains from the Missouri.
These two windows permitted the dying light partly to reveal the interior of the one long room. The mountain man pressed his face close to the glass and after gazing inside was puzzled to understand why the door should be locked. There was neither shelving nor merchandise. The back wall of the room was filled with bunks. Directly opposite his window were heaped saddles and bales of blankets. Several rifles and revolvers hung on the wall. In one corner were a dozen jugs and several bags.
“I believe the storekeeper is coming,” spoke up Gilbert.
Old Misery faced about and picked up his rifle. A horseman was galloping from the east side of the valley. As he came on he held up an open hand.
“Howdy,” saluted the mountain man. “You run this outfit?”
The man was grinning broadly, his big teeth clinched together; and without opening his mouth he replied:
“My name's Jason. I'm the trader here. Where you from? What do you want?”
Gilbert was fascinated in watching the writhing lips as the words came through the fence of teeth.
“We're from over the ridge. We want to trade for grub, pack-mule and two hosses. We's got the dust to pay with. We're aiming to make the Humboldt road.”
“Can't furnish a mule or hosses. But there's plenty of whisky, beans, flour and smoked meat inside. You folks wait till I picket my hoss and I'll open up and rustle supper.”
He rode to the corner of the house; then reined in and asked:
“Have you got dust or coins?”
The question seemed to be irrelevant but Old Misery told him:
“I said dust. I meant nuggets. Don't worry 'bout your pay. If we'd wanted to steal we could have bu'sted in.”
“I'd grub-stake you if you was bu'sted,” Jason warmly assured him. “Have to make several trades before I can git my profit in hard money or dust. Swap grub for that stuff I have to tote over the ridge and sell before I can make a profit. Sometimes I lose by it. It's mighty heartening to know it's a cash dicker. If you'd come here without a dollar you'd be welcome; but when you come with dust or nuggets it makes me feel mighty good. With no trains coming in for—”
“I've got the dust, or nuggets. What'n hell you yawping 'bout so long?” querulously interrupted Old Misery.
“Stick up your hands!” commanded a voice behind them. Gilbert and Misery turned and beheld a man on foot. He was aiming two heavy revolvers at them.
“And keep them up, you man who packs dust over to this side of the ridge,” added Jason, riding back with a gun in each hand.
“Out-Injuned by skunks!” gritted Old Misery.
Half a dozen horsemen now galloped from the growth and bore down on the cabin.
“That medicine told the truth so far.”
“What does this mean?” whispered Gilbert. “Posse after me?”
“No. Mebbe worse'n that. But keep shet. Try to act the way you ain't feeling. Leave me to do the powwowing.”
The horsemen came to a plunging halt and, with the exception of a little man perched on a big rawbone roan, leaped to the ground, crowded around the two prisoners and quickly stripped them of their weapons.
“Walked right into your trap, Jason, and never 'spected it!” cried one ruffian admiringly.
“They say they got some Californy dust with 'em,” Jason informed the mounted man.
“Perhaps they bring news that's of more value than the gold,” replied the horseman in a shrill voice; and he slipped to the ground.
Gilbert was surprised to find himself accepting the situation so calmly. Truth was he was relieved to know he was not in the hands of a posse. To be robbed would be most disagreeable, but as yet he had no fear of physical harm. A posse might string him up, but it would be sadly ironical if the lawless and the law-enforcers should be of the same mind. Also, he believed, such a coincidence was very improbable. He studied Jason thoughtfully and decided the man's permanent grin was a facial peculiarity and not the reflection of a cheerful mood.
Old Misery, speaking slowly, said:
“If 'nough of you brave fellers have come in, and if 'nough guns are p'inted at us so you ain't afraid we'll bu'st loose and bite, we'd like to drop our arms. I'm an old man and I git tired easy.”
“You've got all their weapons, Jason?” piped up the little man. “Good. Now we'll take them inside so they won't catch a sickness from the evening air.”
Loud guffaws of amusement greeted the last. The leader glanced at the weapons and appropriated Gilbert's pocket-knife.
“They're clean as a hound's tooth,” Jason assured the little man.
“You're hoss-thieves,” abruptly spoke up Old Misery.
The men laughed boisterously at this belated discovery.
But Jason, his mouth stretched to the utmost, warned him:
“Your talk is bad.”
He shot forth a hand and caught the mountain man by the beard. The assault was hardly initiated before Misery had kicked the fellow violently on the shin; and as the man grunted in pain and released his hold to bend involuntarily and caress his leg the buckskin-clad knee smashed him in the face.
“I came here to buy grub and a mule, thinking this was a store,” cried the mountain man. “Finding you to be hoss-thieves, I'll take what I need without paying.”
The little man's bead-like eyes twinkled, and he danced aside to give the groaning Jason plenty of room. Growling in rage, Jason whipped out a knife and leaped toward Old Misery. Gilbert thrust out a foot and tripped him on his face. The mountain man scooped up the knife and cast it thirty feet to stick in a small pine. The outlaws remained motionless for a moment, taken completely by surprise at the unlooked for happenings. Now they began crowding forward, mouthing oaths and threats. The leader, cackling merrily, suddenly intervened.
Jason, who would have renewed his attack, received a cuff in the face, and the leader was commanding:
“Enough of this play for now. The old gray rat has made me laugh. I owe him a good supper for that, Plenty of time to pass on their case.”
“We're running from the vigilantes. I'm one of Murieta's men,” announced Old Misery. “I killed Ching-a-ling, Murieta's spy in Nevada City, after the breed told the committee where to find Ana Benites.”
The leader, in strong contrast to his be-whiskered followers because of his thin, clean-shaven face, came close to the mountain man and stared for fully a minute into the frosty blue eyes. There was no jocosity in his thin, penetrating voice as he warned:
“Old man, you've made a strong talk. You're either going to get what you came for without price, or you're going to have your throat cut. Now inside, the two of you. You men see they don't get loose till I've learned certain things.”
“We'll go inside, but don't you make any throat-cutting talk to me, you little runt. Joaquin Murieta has a long arm; one that can reach a knife clear over the Sierra,” loudly cried Old Misery.
“Softly, softly,” advised the small man.
“Loudly, loudly, when I take the notion. You're buying stolen hosses from our men. Murieta can use you fine. But don't go to talking knives to your betters. It ain't for the likes of you to close a trail to me and my young friend.”
“Softly,” repeated the leader in a low voice. His men read the surging rage from the whip-cord veins standing out from eye to ear, and watched in eager silence.
“What's your name? S'pose you're called something,” barked the mountain man.
“I'm called 'Snake' Martin,” gently replied the leader, and his long, thin nose seemed to lengthen as his thin lips curved up. “We'll treat you like kings till we can look into your history. This talk about Ching-a-ling interests me. And you are sure you killed him?”
“By this time they've found his head tied up in one of his Chinese shawls. He gave the girl away to the committee. He killed her old blind grandpap, old Miguel, who went to see him. He was guarded by citizens and promised his liberty for giving the Benites girl away. I killed him in the little room back of his store right after he stabbed old Miguel.”
Gilbert lowered his gaze to conceal his amazement at such prodigious falsehoods. Martin's thin face lost its evil merriment.
“I should be hearing about it very soon,” he muttered.
“Most likely. And just as soon as your men fetch in the hosses they got from Adams' rancho you oughter give 'em a strong combing. Killed two herders they didn't need to kill and got Nevada City to stewing.”
Martin's face grew somber. But his voice was low and soft as he murmured:
“They'll be crossing between the heads of the American and the Carson. If they've been making any unnecessary killings it's bad—for them. Killings are all right so long as Murieta is blamed. That was part of our bargain.”
Wheeling to face Gilbert, he demanded:
“And this young man? Just why is he entitled to our hospitality? Does he ride with Brother Murieta?”
“He's the one who helped him 'scape from the El Dorado at the bay.”
Martin nodded thoughtfully and stared curiously at the Vermonter. The members of the band exchanged surprised glances.
Martin admitted:
“We're heard about that. Talk had it he was an Englishman. But the air grows chill. We'll finish our talk inside.”
The door was opened, and the prisoners were the first to enter. The shutters were removed, and two men kindled a fire and proceeded to cook supper. Martin sat down with his prisoners in a corner, his men keeping to the other end of the room. He proceeded to interrogate them closely. Gilbert had the easier part as he had to tell only about the El Dorado affair. Shrewd enough of wit once he had his cue, his recital left Martin to believe he went to the gambling-place with the Benites girl as part of a prearranged plan to rob the tables. His unhesitating explanations confirmed the reports that Martin already had received.
When it came Old Misery's turn to be questioned he flatly refused to give his name. He said:
“A name don't count. I could give one or a thousand, and you'd know nothing more'n you do now. 'Nough to know I went to Ching-a-ling's place in Nevada City the night the crowds gathered in the street and sent men to block the passes in the ridge. Me 'n' my young partner was chased far up the ridge and got clear by follering the Truckee River down part way, and then bu'sting to one side and taking the travel as we found it. We come in too much of a hustle to outfit with grub or a mule. So we aimed for here.”
“Good. Excellent,” murmured Martin. “It has the ring of truth. It may be true. I'll find out soon. We're hoss-thieves. We steal from ranchos, and we handle the stock Brother Joaquin's men steal. We sell the stock to immigrants in the fall and plan to steal it back before they can drive it over the ridge. Lacking the immigrant trade we sell to the Mormon stations in the Car son Valley, or make a drive even to Salt Lake City, where we have men who sell to the trains. Of course we plan to steal it back when the trains get this far.
“We make other profits from wagon-trains. I'm free, you see, to tell you much. But there's one thing you must remember; I'm boss here. Brother Joaquin is a big man, but I shall be in the saddle long after he's made his last ride. He mixes vengeance with business. Now I'm all business. To be boss I have to have discipline. And even Joaquin himself can't come here and talk only about so loud.”
His soft voice and glittering gaze were very venomous as he gave the warning.
Gilbert wished his companion would restrain himself, but Old Misery laughed in derision and cried:
“The hell he can't! Why, alongside of him you're a fly alongside an eagle.”
“I'm a patient man because I am a strong man,” Martin quietly told him. “But some of my boys are quick tempered and headstrong. They won't like loud talk.”
“And I'm Old Man Trouble!” bawled the mountain man. “I won't hold my tongue till I'm dead. I'm a trouble-hunter. Still I'm a fair-minded man. I stick by what I say. I'm tired of hearing war-talk. S'pose you pick out the strongest cuss you've got, that don't like my ways, and turn us loose for a little fracas. Knives, hatchets, guns, or bows 'n' arrers.”
And his gaze wandered to where a dozen bows and as many filled quivers were piled—a most unusual complement for such a den.
Martin's gaze darted to the grinning visage of Jason, then passed on to a hulking figure leaning against the wall by the open door. And he murmured:
“If I was sure Brother Joaquin would understand! If I knew you really wanted to try your skill! But, no, no. You'd be killed, or badly injured. You'd say you {SIC|}} have a fair chance—”
“A lie, if I did have a fair chance!” angrily broke in Old Misery.
A bit of color showed in the thin cheeks, yet Martin was outwardly composed as he reminded the other.
“You couldn't speak after you were killed. Brother Joaquin would only know you had been knifed to death. On the other hand it's bad for discipline to have you talk so loud. If you're allowed to do it, others might take the notion to try it, and that would be very bad—for them. A man can't be a leader unless he has followers. Now there's Everick—” and he nodded toward the big man by the door—“no, that would never do. He's too much in earnest in his work. Too whole-hearted. Why, I've seen him tear a man to pieces with his bare hands!”
The mountain man gave a snort of disdain and brought the man Everick to his feet, lowering murderously, as he derided:
“Prob'ly found some poor root 'n' grass Injun asleep. If he's such a keen one, then let him 'n' me have a friendly tussle without weepins. I'm free to say that with knife, gun, or hatchet he wouldn't stand no more chance than a Chinaman on a rich claim beyond the ridge.”
The long, thin nose came down, and the thin lips curved up. And Martin smiled grimly and stared at the mountain man with new respect. Gilbert was greatly frightened. He could not understand why his old friend should go out of his way to engage in a brawl, and above all things to select the largest and most brutal-appearing man in the whole reckless band. It fairly nauseated him to think of the outcome of the unequal battle. Everick glared at Old Misery, and then turned pleading eyes on his chief. The others waited with wolfish interest to hear the little man's decision.
Speaking slowly, Martin said:
“If you could be tamed, old man, you'd make a good man for me. As it is you're too audacious, too ambitious. I'm wondering how much of it you mean, and how much is bluff. Everick, listen to me, and remember; there must be no killing. I may be unwise to permit it, but our guest is too insistent.”
Then to Old Misery:
“You're not bound to go into it. Suppose we forget all about it?”
“That's one way of saving your man's hide,” agreed Old Misery.
Everick sounded a bull-like roar and shuffled his feet nervously and waited for the word. The mountain man had convinced himself Martin was the most dangerous one of the band and well worthy of leadership.
“Remove your weapons, Everick, and step outside. When I say stop, you stop. You know me, Everick. Stop when I say the word.”
“I'll heed the word, chief, but this waiting chokes me,” gasped Everick; and he plunged through the doorway and stripped off his blue shirt and stamped his feet impatiently.
“Even now it's not too late. It will soon be dark,” said Martin.
“Don't—do—it,” begged Gilbert in an undertone, and fighting to get each word off his tongue.
“The light will last as long as I need it,” assured the mountain man.
He jumped to his feet and stripped to the waist and revealed the back and shoulders of a man half his years. But what impressed Martin was the many scars on chest and back. There was one especially hideous wound on the upper part of the back near the spine. Martin touched it gently with a finger and said—
“That was very severe, my friend.”
“Bah! That was a bit of fun. I carried eight skulls in the Sun Dance.”
Then to Gilbert he whispered:
“Hold my shirt and the rock-medicine. Open the bag and keep it p'inted toward us. Don't fret. Got to make 'em think we're wakan witshasha. Got to git clear 'fore others come in from over the ridge.”
Then, throwing back his head, he began singing, “Like a Wolf I Roam,” a war-song of the Teton Sioux—
“Sunka isnala miyelo ca, maka oka winhya omawani.”<ref>“Lone Wolf am I, in different places I roam.</ref>
Snake Martin watched him curiously, admiration and a glint of doubt beginning to show in his sharp eyes. He had believed the old man was bluffing; but that network of scars testified to occasions when he must have been terribly in earnest. He had resented the old man's boastful words; now he was wondering if aught short of death could still the audacious tongue.
If not for the lurking fear that Misery was telling the truth when claiming membership in Murieta's band he would have ordered his throat cut on the spot. He was too wayward and assertive to make a valuable member of Snake Martin's band. And yet Martin was convinced that only egotistical insanity could prompt a man of the prisoner's many years to seek a rough-and-tumble fight with Everick.
Everick was roaring impatiently outside the door. Old Misery approached the door slowly with the thudding, stamping steps of a Dakota war-dancer; and as he danced he chanted the meaningless syllables, “he a hi ye—he yo.” He was grotesquely dancing, his head thrown back and rolling from side to side as he reached the door. As his head swung around he saw Gilbert, wild of gaze, following him with the buckskin bag concealed under the hunting-shirt.
Everick stretched out his brawny arms and cursed him foully.
“Be you all ready?” cried Old Misery.
“Damn you! Come out here in reach of my hooks,” roared Everick.
Like an arrow released from a strong bow the mountain man leaped upon him and knocked him flat on his back. Before the astounded thief could get to his feet Misery was clear of his groping hands and was leaping high and smacking his heels together three times. While Everick was on his knees Old Misery darted forward and caught the big fellow between the eyes with his heel and bent the huge bulk far back.
“Curse you, Everick' Get up and give him a fight,” whined Martin from the doorway.
“'A wolf am I, but I've eaten nothing,'” howled the mountain man, dancing with bewildering quickness about his now erect antagonist. “He a hi ye. Bring me a fight, you big cow! I feel cold. Make me sweat into warmth. He yo!”
And Gilbert groaned in terror while the others grunted in pleased anticipation as the mountain man abandoned his dancing tactics and deliberately rushed into the arms of his infuriated opponent.
“My lord! Now he's cooked his kettle!” shrilly rejoiced Martin as he saw the big arms wind around the mountain man.
But Old Misery had both elbows against Everick's hairy chest, and the back-hold was useless so long as he maintained that position. Everick towered a head above Misery, yet he strained and grunted to no purpose. For several minutes they stood without moving from their tracks; then Old Misery butted, his head catching Everick under the chin. And the click of the violently-closed jaws was audible to the breathless spectators.
As the shaggy head went back the arms were relaxed and the mountain man was six feet away, grinning and ruffling his yellowish-white beard and reminding Gilbert:
“The medicine, younker. Tunkan is with me. He a hi ye. Set up a man, you little runt, so I can keep warm.”
“Get that old rat!” screamed Martin to Everick, who stood shaking his head and waiting for the mountain man to attack.
With a booming roar Everick rushed forward, his big hands reached ahead, his fingers wide-spread. Gilbert winked and blinked as Old Misery ducked under an arm and Everick yelled in pain. The Vermonter could not see that his friend had touched the big fellow; yet the latter was shaking a hand and even pausing to caress it.
“He 'most tore his little finger off!” yelled an outlaw.
“'A lone wolf am I, in different places I roam, sang Old Misery, capering around his antagonist. “He yo! I'll bu'st every finger you got, you broken-down beef-critter.”
“Get that man!” whined Martin. “Damn you! Get him, or never show your head in this outfit again!”
All but foaming at the mouth, the infuriated giant leaped at Misery as the latter danced derisively to close quarters.
“He's got him! He's got him!” gleefully howled the savage spectators as the two forms became one, a whirling, confused mass that seemed to be all arms and legs.
“Good work, Everick!” shrilly approved Martin.
With the medicine-bag open, the mouth pointing toward the blurred antagonists, Gilbert watched and held his breath. Suddenly the mass cleaved apart.
“He a hi ye,” panted the mountain man as he stood and looked down at the squirming figure.
“Good lord" gasped Martin. “You old devil! What have you done to him?” And he advanced to kneel beside the prostrate man.
“Nothing much,” replied the mountain man. “Just started to take him apart, like he did for t'other man you was telling 'bout. I'm wakan witshasha. I let up when he wouldn't fight no more. When a man won't fight I just gentle him and hunt for stronger meat.”
Everick groaned and writhed. Martin examined him with practised hand.
“Little finger, lower left leg and right forearm broken,” he diagnosed in a shrill singsong.
Rising and dusting his hands, he directed:
“You men take him inside. José, you fix him up. When he can straddle a horse he rides away.”
“In this sort of fussing I can make every man of your outfit ride away alone,” Old Misery informed him.
“Damn you! Stop that kind of talk!” hissed Martin. “Or I'll forget your claim of being one of Murieta's men and take you on myself.”
“You're the toughest one in this outfit, even if you be undersized and pindling,” readily admitted Old Misery. “You're the only one that could make me watch out.”
“Inside with the two of you.” Then to his men: “If either of them tries to escape, shoot. If they're Murieta's men they're welcome to horses and supplies; but they can't stay once I get word they're all right. If they're lying I'll soon know it, and they'll stay here for all time.”
Inside the cabin Old Misery put on his shirt and hunting-frock and took back his rock-medicine. To Gilbert he confided:
“Keeping it aimed at me done the trick. I could feel Tunkan strength flowing through me. If that critter hadn't quit I'd had him in more pieces than I can sep'rate Solid Comfort into. Well, younker, you'll have to agree that life looks brighter'n it did afore we found these folks. Lawd! How Tom Tobin would 'a' like to been here!”
“It's horrible! Terrible! I feel sick to the stomach,” whispered Gilbert.
Old Misery frowned; then grew placid of visage and declared:
“I'll make a mountain man of you yet. You don't start good, but you'll come to it. After you've had a fuss or two you'll like it prime. Now let's call for some grub.”
* ↑ Spanish; a yard in California; equivalent to thirty-two inches.