# The Girl Of Ghost Mountain/Chapter 13

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CHAPTER XIII
THE PURVEYOR OF DREAMS
"East and West—'and never the twain may meet,'" said Quong. "That is a bold saying. We shall see. But there are many things that seem differences between us that may not be so wide apart after all. When you of the West say China sleeps, you think of opium. You forget that China herself made the biggest effort to rid herself of the drug, that one of the modern races preferred profit to helping us do it.
"I sold opium, for a profit, in San Francisco. It was one of several of my means of revenue. I believe in opium, for the present generation. We, who furnished the base for Japan's boasted civilization, can take example from her. From her methods of colonization in Formosa. She has succeeded where other nations failed because she has regulated, restricted opium, instead of prohibiting it. No one who has not formed the habit is allowed to do so. Those who have become habituated to the drug may obtain it. Without it many would die. I have no doubt there are many old people in this country whose lives have been shortened for lack of their stimulating toddies. And I fancy it will take you a full generation to inhibit alcohol, to ensure Prohibition—if it is not revoked,
​"In my opium rooms, neither den nor cellar, I never permitted initiation into the habit of using opium. Novices were barred. Not from altruism, but because I believe in that regulation for my own people and it held with all comers. For I did not draw the color line. Any one who had the price, who regularly used opium, could come, under my rules, and enter their Nirvana. I was a purveyor of dreams, of comfort, of forgetfulness. Nor was the price always necessary nor forthcoming, though I am not a charitable man.
"One man came to me with a certain sum and wished to purchase what you might call an annuity. He was old. Seventy I know him to be. He might live a year, or twenty. If he lived more than two years, I, supplying him with the drug, would lose. Drug insurance you might call it. It is quite a common practice. He was a Mexican, wrinkled as a walnut, half man, half mummy. He ate little. Opiuan was his existence. With it, he dwelled half-way between the ultimate heaven and the earth, like Mahomet in his coffin. Without it, he was a haunted, miserable wretch. He had not the full faculty of his brain. He had suffered a blow in his youth that left some coagulation. In a rich man they would have called it cerebral thrombosis. In his walk of life it stamped him as partly crazy. Nutty Juan, they styled him. Juan Mendoza. He had partial paralysis. When he walked he sidled like a crab.
"But the opium cleared his brain, helped his coordination. Between his second and third pipes ​his brain was active, normal. I made several tests of this—for a purpose.
"I made a good investment in Juan Mendoza, though he has smoked many taels worth beyond what he paid for. He was humble. I, the purveyor of dreams, the dispenser of happiness, was his god. He feared I might repent of my bargain, cancel the contract, break the word of Hi Luen with an old Mexican peon. He offered, as he lived on, to make himself useful, to cook the stuff, to wait upon customers when he was not himself smoking. And, regarding me as his god, between his second and third pipes he told me his secret. Retold it, never varying. As far as could be, I checked it, as I checked the other things he told me under the same conditions. I did it very carefully and I accept his tale.
"In the early period of your Civil War this territory was once occupied by the Secessionists. They were helped by the Mexicans living here. A company from California drove them out."
Sheridan nodded, remembering Mary Burrows' tale.
"The Mexicans scattered into the hills. They were outlaws. And they lived as such, guerillas, preying on any one and anything they could get the better of. They turned highwaymen, joining in bands under different chiefs.
"The mine I have spoken of lay to the east, in the Sawtooth foothills. It was a placer proposition, a hill of hardened gravel. Doubtless its owner, a man named Frederick Kenyon, thought it all gold-bearing. He worked it as if he thought so. He built ​a furnace to melt down his gold. I imagine he shoveled it, panned it, amalgamated it with quicksilver. From what Juan said there was no force of water for hydraulic mining. Nowadays they would use a steam shovel. But that does not matter. Kenyon found only one portion of his hill was gold-bearing, the rest valueless conglomerate. He stored up the gold for shipment and, when he found he had come to the end of his treasure, he prepared to ship it to Pioche, in wagons, guarded—but not guarded heavily enough. They made for Pioche Gap, where the railroad now runs. And a Mexican band, hiding in ambush, swooped down upon the treasure train. In that band was Juan Mendoza, fifteen or so years of age, a man grown by Mexican standards, old enough to aim and fire a rifle.
"They killed Kenyon. They shot down the guards before many of them knew what had happened, firing from the cliffs. And they carried off the gold, westward, to their hiding place. Juan described it to me as a canyon rising from the desert, with painted cliffs that were shaped like churches. He regarded it with superstitious awe. To him it was sacrilege to bring stolen gold, won by murder, to such a place. He believed the rock forms were actual ruins, that they would be cursed for their action. Remember this superstition of his.
"But the others, older, more callous, laughed at him. There was water there and feed for their horses, many caves in which to hide and, if necessary, defend themselves. They had provisions stored there. There were women. It was their fortress. ​They knew the secret of the communicating caves. And to this place, the City of Silence, as they named it, they brought their loot. Juan was with the rearguard. He was a good shot, it seems. But he had a poor horse and it had been wounded by a stray bullet. So he fell behind the rest in their eagerness, as they approached their stronghold and knew they were not followed. Indeed the mesa was sparsely settled then.
"It was with infinite detail that Juan Mendoza told me this story, with detail never contradicted. An interesting, colorful story, Mr. Sheridan, but I think that, so far, I have outlined sufficiently."
He had. Sheridan had seen a vision of the treasure wagons setting out, the over-confident guardians, the jesting, wages to be paid, drinks and gambling to be had in Pioche, their carelessness as they neared the pass. Then shots, from unseen marksmen. Falling men, stricken horses. The rush of the bandits, the dead left for the coyotes and the buzzards. He had glimpsed the robber stronghold with its women, its lawlessness. Quong was a conjuror of words, his style of speech, almost a monotone, had flawless technique in the art of story telling. Sheridan saw, too, Juan Mendoza, sidling like a crab among the patrons of the opium rooms, worshiping Quong, his god, who gave him surcease, telling him his secret.
"The entrance to their system of caves," went on Quong, "was at the end of a wide fissure, a sort of open tunnel close to a mock structure of white rock resembling a Spanish Mission. It was named, I ​believe, La Capilla Blanca, the White Chapel. That title may endure. At any rate, it is the only formation of white rock that has that appearance, and the open tunnel was some fifty feet to the west of it. You may have noticed it?"
"I have a vague recollection of it," said Sheridan. "More than a vague one, as I think. The name should help."
"The wagons entered this ravine, the men whooping, the rearguard, save Juan on his lame horse, caught up with it, the women coming out of the mouth of the first cave.
"Much of these cliffs is formed of clay. It burns and hardens, it weathers, leaches in the heavy rains that break there, breaks off by various causes, lowered temperature at nightfall, one of them, and great masses that look like broken bricks come charging down the cliffs. It was well after sunset when they reached the place. There was a moon, and fires leaping within the cave mouth. No doubt it was cold.
"At all events, when the wagons and their escort were well within this open tunnel, Juan, arriving at its opening, turned in, heard a gathering sound as of thunder, and saw, rushing in clouds of dust, sweeping down from the cliffs, tons of this weathered clay. It rushed, swift as water, into the tunnel. It buried the men and the wagons, smothering their shrieks, trapping them, burying them deep, with the women waiting in the caves.
"Juan's wounded horse, stiffened with fright, balked and Juan flung himself from the saddle, but ​not too soon, for he was caught in the skirts of that earthy avalanche. He was struck upon the head. For him the horror ended, swiftly as the cries of the others had been silenced.
"He came to consciousness buried waist deep, bruised, half crazed, the clot forming in the cortex of his brain. One idea crystallized. It was the vengeance of God. Venganza de Dios. They had desecrated the place with the blood of innocent men. He alone was spared. Porque?
"I do not think he answered that question easily, or for a long time. But its constant interrogation imbued him with another fixed idea. He must not speak of this. Not only would he be captured, but he would go unshriven to his grave. He was ignorant, superstitious, and there was the thrombosis, the coagulation in his none-too-well-developed brain.
"He fought himself free like a wild thing. His horse was gone and he wandered out into the desert. After a long while he crawled to a white man's ranch. It was far away. They asked him no questions. He was in no condition to answer and terror held him dumb after they had tended him. There is no terror like that of the Unknown. Venganza de Dios. It drove him away when they offered him a job as herder. He fled, far to the west. His wanderings, like those of the accursed Jew, have no place here, save as I used them to check his narrative. But he held his secret until I, his god, appeared and gave him opium when he could no longer deny it. Or so I believe. We can easily find the place, can see if that buried rift has been disturbed. If not, over ​a quarter of a million dollars awaits each of us, if you accept my proposition."
Sheridan sat silent, silent as Quong. Yet both men looked beyond the gold and saw visions. Quong, of a principality he would establish in the far East, ease and command. Sheridan, Chico Mesa green with crops, with the flash of water squaring up the fields, of well-fed, well-bred cattle, prosperity, progress in a land where men were, or should be equal.
"Well?"
Sheridan rose and put out his hand.
"I accept, in the name of Altruism," he said. Quong joined the clasp, a leaping, vanishing spark of humor in his secretive eyes.
There was the sound of a rider calling his horse to a halt outside, the clink of spurs, the tread of feet, Jackson coming along the verandah to the outer door. Sheridan returned to Circle S as one set down from a magic carpet.
"We will discuss plans later, Quong," he said. Subtly Hi Luen changed to Quong Li, the cook, consulting the master of the ranch. As Jackson flung open the door he vanished through the inner one.
"She's done gone," announced Jackson. "Bill Grey, who rides herd on the train, will see her off. She's gone now. I waited over to see about my new saddle. Nothin' stirrin' about Hollister. But here's what the operator shouted for me to come an' git as I was lopin' past the depot on my way home. Telegram."
​Sheridan opened the yellow envelope, read its contents aloud.
"Voy a Yuma las guintas. Pedro en Pioche. Sea Vd bien prudente. A dios. Gracias. Juanita."
"Leavin' for Yuma at five o'clock. Pedro in Pioche. Look out. God bless you, thank you an' goodbye," interpreted Jackson. "Short an' concise, like the tail of a docked hawss. Well, I ain't worryin' none about Pedro. Me, I'm goin' to find out what Quong's got for supper."
Sheridan, too, dismissed Pedro's dangerous possibilities as he rolled up his maps and drawings that, at last, began to suggest more than the drafting of a dream.