Randall Parrish - Bob Hampton of Placer
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Randall Parrish >> Bob Hampton of Placer
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"But you have doubts," he interrupted. "Well, I have none, for I have
greater faith in the girl, and--perhaps in God. Good-night, Naida."
He bowed above the hand the girl gave him in the darkness, and ever
after she believed he bent lower, and pressed his lips upon it. The
next moment the black night had closed him out, and she stood there,
half frightened at she knew not what, on the threshold of her new life.
CHAPTER IX
AT THE OCCIDENTAL
Hampton slowly picked his way back through the darkness down the silent
road, his only guide those dim yellow lights flickering in the
distance. He walked soberly, his head bent slightly forward, absorbed
in thought. Suddenly he paused, and swore savagely, his disgust at the
situation bursting all bounds; yet when he arrived opposite the beam of
light streaming invitingly forth from the windows of the first saloon,
he was whistling softly, his head held erect, his cool eyes filled with
reckless daring.
It was Saturday night, and the mining town was already alive. The one
long, irregular street was jammed with constantly moving figures, the
numerous saloons ablaze, the pianos sounding noisily, the shuffling of
feet in the crowded dance-halls incessant. Fakers were everywhere
industriously hawking their useless wares and entertaining the
loitering crowds, while the roar of voices was continuous. Cowboys
from the wide plains, miners from the hidden gulches, ragged, hopeful
prospectors from the more distant mountains, teamsters, and half-naked
Indians, commingled in the restless throng, passing and repassing from
door to door, careless in dress, rough in manner, boisterous in
language. Here and there amid this heterogeneous population of toilers
and adventurers, would appear those attired in the more conventional
garb of the East,--capitalists hunting new investments, or chance
travellers seeking to discover a new thrill amid this strange life of
the frontier. Everywhere, brazen and noisy, flitted women, bold of
eye, painted of cheek, gaudy of raiment, making mock of their sacred
womanhood. Riot reigned unchecked, while the quiet, sleepy town of the
afternoon blossomed under the flickering lights into a saturnalia of
unlicensed pleasure, wherein the wages of sin were death.
Hampton scarcely noted this marvellous change; to him it was no
uncommon spectacle. He pushed his way through the noisy throng with
eyes ever watchful for the faces. His every motion was that of a man
who had fully decided upon his course. Through the widely opened doors
of the Occidental streams of blue and red shirted men were constantly
flowing in and out; a band played strenuously on the wide balcony
overhead, while beside the entrance a loud-voiced "barker" proclaimed
the many attractions within. Hampton swung up the broad wooden steps
and entered the bar-room, which was crowded by jostling figures, the
ever-moving mass as yet good-natured, for the night was young. At the
lower end of the long, sloppy bar he stopped for a moment to nod to the
fellow behind.
"Anything going on to-night worth while, Jim?" he questioned, quietly.
"Rather stiff game, they tell me, just started in the back room," was
the genial reply. "Two Eastern suckers, with Red Slavin sitting in."
The gambler passed on, pushing rather unceremoniously through the
throng of perspiring humanity. He appeared out of place amid the rough
element jostling him, and more than one glanced at him curiously, a few
swearing as he elbowed them aside. Scarcely noticing this, he drew a
cigar from his pocket, and stuck it unlighted between his teeth. The
large front room upstairs was ablaze with lights, every game in full
operation and surrounded by crowds of devotees. Tobacco smoke in
clouds circled to the low ceiling, and many of the players were noisy
and profane, while the various calls of faro, roulette, keno, and
high-ball added to the confusion and to the din of shuffling feet and
excited exclamations. Hampton glanced about superciliously, shrugging
his shoulders in open contempt--all this was far too coarse, too small,
to awaken his interest. He observed the various faces at the tables--a
habit one naturally forms who has desperate enemies in plenty--and then
walked directly toward the rear of the room. A thick, dingy red
curtain hung there; he held back its heavy folds and stepped within the
smaller apartment beyond.
Three men sat at the single table, cards in hand, and Hampton
involuntarily whistled softly behind his teeth at the first glimpse of
the money openly displayed before them. This was apparently not so bad
for a starter, and his waning interest revived. A red-bearded giant,
sitting so as to face the doorway, glanced up quickly at his entrance,
his coarse mouth instantly taking on the semblance of a smile.
"Ah, Bob," he exclaimed, with an evident effort at cordiality; "been
wondering if you wouldn't show up before the night was over. You're
the very fellow to make this a four-handed affair, provided you carry
sufficient stuff."
Hampton came easily forward into the full glow of the swinging oil
lamp, his manner coolly deliberate, his face expressionless. "I feel
no desire to intrude," he explained, quietly, watching the uplifted
faces. "I believe I have never before met these gentlemen."
Slavin laughed, his great white fingers drumming the table.
"It is an acquaintance easily made," he said, "provided one can afford
to trot in their class, for it is money that talks at this table
to-night. Mr. Hampton, permit me to present Judge Hawes, of Denver,
and Mr. Edgar Willis, president of the T. P. & R. I have no idea what
they are doing in this hell-hole of a town, but they are dead-game
sports, and I have been trying my best to amuse them while they're
here."
Hampton bowed, instantly recognizing the names.
"Glad to assist," he murmured, sinking into a vacant chair. "What
limit?"
"We have had no occasion to discuss that matter as yet," volunteered
Hawes, sneeringly. "However, if you have scruples we might settle upon
something within reason."
Hampton ran the undealt pack carelessly through his fingers, his lips
smiling pleasantly. "Oh, never mind, if it chances to go above my pile
I 'll drop out. Meanwhile, I hardly believe there is any cause for you
to be modest on my account."
The play opened quietly and with some restraint, the faces of the men
remaining impassive, their watchful glances evidencing nothing either
of success or failure. Hampton played with extreme caution for some
time, his eyes studying keenly the others about the table, seeking some
deeper understanding of the nature of his opponents, their strong and
weak points, and whether or not there existed any prior arrangement
between them. He was there for a purpose, a clearly defined purpose,
and he felt no inclination to accept unnecessary chances with the
fickle Goddess of Fortune. To one trained in the calm observation of
small things, and long accustomed to weigh his adversaries with care,
it was not extremely difficult to class the two strangers, and Hampton
smiled softly on observing the size of the rolls rather ostentatiously
exhibited by them. He felt that his lines had fallen in pleasant
places, and looked forward with serene confidence to the enjoyment of a
royal game, provided only he exercised sufficient patience and the
other gentlemen possessed the requisite nerve. His satisfaction was in
noways lessened by the sound of their voices, when incautiously raised
in anger over some unfortunate play. He immediately recognized them as
the identical individuals who had loudly and vainly protested over his
occupancy of the best rooms at the hotel. He chuckled grimly.
But what bothered him particularly was Slavin. The cool gray eyes,
glancing with such apparent negligence across the cards in his hands,
noted every slight movement of the red-bearded gambler, in expectation
of detecting some sign of trickery, or some evidence that he had been
selected by this precious trio for the purpose of easy plucking.
Knavery was Slavin's style, but apparently he was now playing a
straight game, no doubt realizing clearly, behind his impassive mask of
a face, the utter futility of seeking to outwit one of Hampton's
enviable reputation.
It was, unquestionably, a fairly fought four-handed battle, and at
last, thoroughly convinced of this, Hampton settled quietly down,
prepared to play out his game. The hours rolled on unnoted, the men
tireless, their faces immovable, the cards dealt silently. The stakes
grew steadily larger, and curious visitors, hearing vague rumors
without, ventured in, to stand behind the chairs of the absorbed
players and look on. Now and then a startled exclamation evidenced the
depth of their interest and excitement, but at the table no one spoke
above a strained whisper, and no eye ventured to wander from the board.
Several times drinks were served, but Hampton contented himself with a
gulp of water, always gripping an unlighted cigar between his teeth.
He was playing now with apparent recklessness, never hesitating over a
card, his eye as watchful as that of a hawk, his betting quick,
confident, audacious. The contagion of his spirit seemed to affect the
others, to force them into desperate wagers, and thrill the lookers-on.
The perspiration was beading Slavin's forehead, and now and then an
oath burst unrestrained from his hairy lips. Hawes and Willis sat
white-faced, bent forward anxiously over the table, their fingers
shaking as they handled the fateful cards, but Hampton played without
perceptible tremor, his utterances few and monosyllabic, his calm face
betraying not the faintest emotion.
And he was steadily winning. Occasionally some other hand drew in the
growing stock of gold and bank notes, but not often enough to offset
those continued gains that began to heap up in such an alluring pile
upon his portion of the table. The watchers began to observe this, and
gathered more closely about his chair, fascinated by the luck with
which the cards came floating into his hands, the cool judgment of his
critical plays, the reckless abandon with which he forced success. The
little room was foul with tobacco smoke and electric with ill-repressed
excitement, yet he played on imperturbably, apparently hearing nothing,
seeing nothing, his entire personality concentrated on his play.
Suddenly he forced the fight to a finish. The opportunity came in a
jack-pot which Hawes had opened. The betting began with a cool
thousand. Then Hampton's turn came. Without drawing, his cards yet
lying face downward before him on the board, his calm features as
immovable as the Sphinx, he quietly pushed his whole accumulated pile
to the centre, named the sum, and leaned back in his chair, his eyes
cold, impassive. Hawes threw down his hand, wiping his streaming face
with his handkerchief; Willis counted his remaining roll, hesitated,
looked again at the faces of his cards, flung aside two, drawing to
fill, and called loudly for a show-down, his eyes protruding. Slavin,
cursing fiercely under his red beard, having drawn one card, his
perplexed face instantly brightening as he glanced at it, went back
into his hip pocket for every cent he had, and added his profane demand
for a chance at the money.
A fortune rested on the table, a fortune the ownership of which was to
be decided in a single moment, and by the movement of a hand. The
crowd swayed eagerly forward, their heads craned over to see more
clearly, their breathing hushed. Willis was gasping, his whole body
quivering; Slavin was watching Hampton's hands as a cat does a mouse,
his thick lips parted, his fingers twitching nervously. The latter
smiled grimly, his motions deliberate, his eyes never wavering.
Slowly, one by one, he turned up his cards, never even deigning to
glance downward, his entire manner that of unstudied indifference.
One--two--three. Willis uttered a snarl like a stricken wild beast,
and sank back in his chair, his eyes closed, his cheeks ghastly. Four.
Slavin brought down his great clenched fist with a crash on the table,
a string of oaths bursting unrestrained from his lips. Five. Hampton,
never stirring a muscle, sat there like a statue, watching. His right
hand kept hidden beneath the table, with his left he quietly drew in
the stack of bills and coin, pushing the stuff heedlessly into the side
pocket of his coat, his gaze never once wandering from those stricken
faces fronting him. Then he softly pushed back his chair and stood
erect. Willis never moved, but Slavin rose unsteadily to his feet,
gripping the table fiercely with both hands.
"Gentlemen," said Hampton, gravely, his clear voice sounding like the
sudden peal of a bell, "I can only thank you for your courtesy in this
matter, and bid you all good-night. However, before I go it may be of
some interest for me to say that I have played my last game."
Somebody laughed sarcastically, a harsh, hateful laugh. The speaker
whirled, took one step forward; there was the flash of an extended arm,
a dull crunch, and Red Slavin went crashing backward against the wall.
As he gazed up, dazed and bewildered, from the floor, the lights
glimmered along a blue-steel barrel.
"Not a move, you red brute," and Hampton spurned him contemptuously
with his heel. "This is no variety show, and your laughter was in poor
taste. However, if you feel particularly hilarious to-night I 'll give
you another chance. I said this was my last game; I'll repeat
it--_this was my last game_! Now, damn you! if you feel like it,
laugh!"
He swept the circle of excited faces, his eyes glowing like two
diamonds, his thin lips compressed into a single straight line.
"Mr. Slavin appears to have lost his previous sense of humor," he
remarked, calmly. "I will now make my statement for the third
time--_this was my last game_. Perhaps some of you gentlemen also may
discover this to be amusing."
[Illustration: "Mr. Slavin appears to have lost his previous sense of
humor," he remarked, calmly.]
The heavy, strained breathing of the motionless crowd was his only
answer, and a half smile of bitter contempt curled Hampton's lips, as
he swept over them a last defiant glance.
"Not quite so humorous as it seemed to be at first, I reckon," he
commented, dryly. "Slavin," and he prodded the red giant once more
with his foot, "I'm going out; if you make any attempt to leave this
room within the next five minutes I 'll kill you in your tracks, as I
would a mad dog. You stacked cards twice to-night, but the last time I
beat you fairly at your own game."
He held aside the heavy curtains with his left hand and backed slowly
out facing them, the deadly revolver shining ominously in the other.
Not a man moved: Slavin glowered at him from the floor, an impotent
curse upon his lips. Then the red drapery fell.
While the shadows of the long night still hung over the valley, Naida,
tossing restlessly upon her strange bed within the humble yellow house
at the fork of the trails, was aroused to wakefulness by the pounding
of a horse's hoofs on the plank bridge spanning the creek. She drew
aside the curtain and looked out, shading her eyes to see clearer
through the poor glass. All she perceived was a somewhat deeper smudge
when the rider swept rapidly past, horse and man a shapeless shadow.
Three hours later she awoke again, this time to the full glare of day,
and to the remembrance that she was now facing a new life. As she lay
there thinking, her eyes troubled but tearless, far away on the
sun-kissed uplands Hampton was spurring forward his horse, already
beginning to exhibit signs of weariness. Bent slightly over the saddle
pommel, his eyes upon these snow-capped peaks still showing blurred and
distant, he rode steadily on, the only moving object amid all that
wide, desolate landscape.
_PART II_
WHAT OCCURRED IN GLENCAID
CHAPTER I
THE ARRIVAL OF MISS SPENCER
There was a considerable period when events of importance in Glencaid's
history were viewed against the background of the opening of its first
school. This was not entirely on account of the deep interest
manifested in the cause of higher education by the residents, but owing
rather to the personality of the pioneer school-teacher, and the deep,
abiding impress which she made upon the community.
Miss Phoebe Spencer came direct to Glencaid from the far East, her
starting-point some little junction place back in Vermont, although she
proudly named Boston as her home, having once visited in that
metropolis for three delicious weeks. She was of an ardent,
impressionable nature. Her mind was nurtured upon Eastern conceptions
of our common country, her imagination aglow with weird tales of the
frontier, and her bright eyes perceived the vivid coloring of romance
in each prosaic object west of the tawny Missouri. All appeared so
different from that established life to which she had grown
accustomed,--the people, the country, the picturesque language,--while
her brain so teemed with lurid pictures of border experiences and
heroes as to reveal romantic possibilities everywhere. The vast,
mysterious West, with its seemingly boundless prairies, grand, solemn
mountains, and frankly spoken men peculiarly attired and everywhere
bearing the inevitable "gun," was to her a newly discovered world. She
could scarcely comprehend its reality. As the apparently illimitable
plains, barren, desolate, awe-inspiring, rolled away behind, mile after
mile, like a vast sea, and left a measureless expanse of grim desert
between her and the old life, her unfettered imagination seemed to
expand with the fathomless blue of the Western sky. As her eager eyes
traced the serrated peaks of a snow-clad mountain range, her heart
throbbed with anticipation of wonders yet to come. Homesickness was a
thing undreamed of; her active brain responded to each new impression.
She sat comfortably ensconced in the back seat of the old, battered red
coach, surrounded by cushions for protection from continual jouncing,
as the Jehu in charge urged his restive mules down the desolate valley
of the Bear Water. Her cheeks were flushed, her wide-open eyes filled
with questioning, her pale fluffy hair frolicking with the breeze, as
pretty a picture of young womanhood as any one could wish to see. Nor
was she unaware of this fact. During the final stage other long
journey she had found two congenial souls, sufficiently picturesque to
harmonize with her ideas of wild Western romance.
These two men were lolling in the less comfortable seat opposite,
secretly longing for a quiet smoke outside, yet neither willing to
desert this Eastern divinity to his rival. The big fellow, his arm run
carelessly through the leather sling, his bare head projecting half out
of the open window, was Jack Moffat, half-owner of the "Golden Rule,"
and enjoying a well-earned reputation as the most ornate and artistic
liar in the Territory. For two hours he had been exercising his talent
to the full, and merely paused now in search of some fresh inspiration,
holding in supreme and silent contempt the rather feeble imitations of
his less-gifted companion. It is also just to add that Mr. Moffat
personally formed an ideal accompaniment to his vivid narrations of
adventure, and he was fully aware of the fact that Miss Spencer's
appreciative eyes wandered frequently in his direction, noting his
tanned cheeks, his long silky mustache, the somewhat melancholy gleam
of his dark eyes--hiding beyond doubt some mystery of the past, the
nature of which was yet to be revealed. Mr. Moffat, always strong
along this line of feminine sympathy, felt newly inspired by these
evidences of interest in his tales, and by something in Miss Spencer's
face which bespoke admiration.
The fly in the ointment of this long day's ride, the third party, whose
undesirable presence and personal knowledge of Mr. Moffat's past career
rather seriously interfered with the latter's flights of imagination,
was William McNeil, foreman of the "Bar V" ranch over on Sinsiniwa
Creek. McNeil was not much of a talker, having an impediment in his
speech, and being a trifle bashful in the presence of a lady. But he
caught the eye,--a slenderly built, reckless fellow, smoothly shaven,
with a strong chin and bright laughing eyes,--and as he lolled
carelessly back in his bearskin "chaps" and wide-brimmed sombrero,
occasionally throwing in some cool, insinuating comment regarding
Moffat's recitals, the latter experienced a strong inclination to heave
him overboard. The slight hardening of McNeil's eyes at such moments
had thus far served, however, as sufficient restraint, while the
unobservant Miss Spencer, unaware of the silent duel thus being
conducted in her very presence, divided her undisguised admiration,
playing havoc with the susceptible heart of each, and all unconsciously
laying the foundations for future trouble.
"Why, how truly remarkable!" she exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. "It's
all so different from the East; heroism seems to be in the very air of
this country, and your adventure was so very unusual. Don't you think
so, Mr. McNeil?"
The silent foreman hitched himself suddenly upright, his face unusually
solemn. "Why--eh--yes, miss--you might--eh--say that. He," with a
flip of his hand toward the other, "eh--reminds me--of--eh--an old
friend."
"Indeed? How extremely interesting!" eagerly scenting a new story.
"Please tell me who it was, Mr. McNeil."
"Oh--eh--knew him when I was a boy--eh--Munchausen."
Mr. Moffat drew in his head violently, with an exclamation nearly
profane, yet before he could speak Miss Spencer intervened.
"Munchausen! Why, Mr. McNeil, you surely do not intend to question the
truth of Mr. Moffat's narrative?"
The foreman's eyes twinkled humorously, but the lines of his face
remained calmly impassive. "My--eh--reference," he explained, gravely,
"was--eh--entirely to the--eh--local color, the--eh--expert touches."
"Oh!"
"Yes, miss. It's--eh--bad taste out here to--eh--doubt anybody's
word--eh--publicly."
Moffat stirred uneasily, his hand flung behind him, but McNeil was
gazing into the lady's fair face, apparently unconscious of any other
presence.
"But all this time you have not favored me with any of your own
adventures, Mr. McNeil. I am very sure you must have had hundreds out
on these wide plains."
The somewhat embarrassed foreman shook his head discouragingly.
"Oh, but I just know you have, only you are so modest about recounting
them. Now, that scar just under your hair--really it is not at all
unbecoming--surely that reveals a story. Was it caused by an Indian
arrow?"
McNeil crossed his legs, and wiped his damp forehead with the back of
his hand. "Hoof of a damn pack-mule," he explained, forgetting
himself. "The--eh--cuss lifted me ten feet."
Moffat laughed hoarsely, but as the foreman straightened up quickly,
the amazed girl joined happily in, and his own face instantly exhibited
the contagion.
"Ain't much--eh--ever happens out on a ranch," he said, doubtfully,
"except dodgin' steers, and--eh--bustin' broncoes."
"Your blame mule story," broke in Moffat, who had at last discovered
his inspiration, "reminds me of a curious little incident occurring
last year just across the divide. I don't recall ever telling it
before, but it may interest you, Miss Spencer, as illustrative of one
phase of life in this country. A party of us were out after bear, and
one night when I chanced to be left all alone in camp, I did n't dare
fall asleep and leave everything unguarded, as the Indians were all
around as thick as leaves on a tree. So I decided to sit up in front
of the tent on watch. Along about midnight, I suppose, I dropped off
into a doze, for the first thing I heard was the hee-haw of a mule
right in my ear. It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I jumped up,
coming slap-bang against the brute's nose so blamed hard it knocked me
flat; and then, when I fairly got my eyes open, I saw five Sioux
Indians creeping along through the moonlight, heading right toward our
pony herd. I tell you things looked mighty skittish for me just then,
but what do you suppose I did with 'em?"
"Eh--eat 'em, likely," suggested McNeil, thoughtfully, "fried with
plenty of--eh--salt; heard they were--eh--good that way."
Mr. Moffat half rose to his feet.
"You damn--"
"O Mr. McNeil, how perfectly ridiculous!" chimed in Miss Spencer.
"Please do go on, Mr. Moffat; it is so exceedingly interesting."
The incensed narrator sank reluctantly back into his seat, his eyes yet
glowing angrily. "Well, I crept carefully along a little gully until I
got where them Indians were just exactly opposite me in a direct line.
I had an awful heavy gun, carrying a slug of lead near as big as your
fist. Had it fixed up specially fer grizzlies. The fellow creepin'
along next me was a tremendous big buck; he looked like a plum giant in
that moonlight, and I 'd just succeeded in drawin' a bead on him when a
draught of air from up the gully strikin' across the back of my neck
made me sneeze, and that buck turned round and saw me. You wouldn't
hardly believe what happened."
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