Rimrock Trail, Joseph Allan Dunn [miss read books TXT] 📗

the bunk-house. Mormon, with a sweeping salute from his bald head to his knees, voiced his opinion.

"Marm," he said, "you're a dyed-in-the-wool sport an' I'd admire to trail with you. But that kittle, as you call it, 'll sure bu'st its cinches with we-all ridin' it. I'm no jockeyweight, fo' one."

"It'll stand up. We've got to make time. I was wonderin' if we c'ud make it by the old road, where you found Molly? It's shorter than White Cliff Cañon an' we've lost time comin' out here."

Sam shook his head.

"No'm, c'udn't be done. There ain't no road. Las' winter 'ud finish what was left of it an' there was spots this side of where we found Casey where a wagon c'udn't have passed. We just made it with the buckbo'd. Ask Sandy."

Sandy, coming up, endorsed Sam.

"We'll have to go the long way," he said. "How are you off fo' grub? It'll be sca'ce an' high in Dynamite. Some of us may have to stay an' hang on to claims until they're recorded an' the new camp settles down. An' one of us sh'ud stay an' run the ranch," he added. At which his partners balked resolutely.

"We've got some food," said Miranda. "You might fetch along some canned stuff if you've any handy. Ed, you sure you got plenty ile, gas an' water? Better look her all over."

With orders to Buck, with some provisions, ammunition and a few tools, the hurried start was made. Mormon clambered to the front seat beside young Ed, Miranda Bailey sat between Sandy and Sam. Whatever lack of energy the lank Ed Junior displayed on his feet, he eliminated as a driver. The springs creaked, chirpings arose from various parts of the car as it ran, but he coaxed the engine, performed miracles at bad places in the road, nursed the insufficient radiator surface and kept the "kittle" at a simmer.

He judged grades, rushed them, conquered them, sometimes at a crawl, slid and skipped and jumped down slopes, negotiated curves on two wheels and brought them triumphantly through White Cliff Cañon, over the malpais belt, up and across a mesa and so to the far brink of it an hour before dawn without puncture, without a broken leaf in the springs, with shock absorbers still on duty and the cylinders performing full service.

Cold and raw as it was, the engine was hot and they halted to cool it. They could see a light or two glimmering at the foot of the mesa, something that had not shown in the deserted mining camp for many years. Miranda Bailey shivered as she got stiffly from the car.

"I've got some powdered coffee an' some solid alcohol," she announced. "We can all have somethin' hot to drink anyway. It won't take but a minute. Here's some cold biscuits we can warm up on that radiator. It's nigh as good as a stove."

The trio watched interestedly the capable way in which she got together the meal, adding sugar and evaporated milk to her coffee. Sam picked up the tin of solid alcohol after it had cooled off.

"It's too bad they can't fix up the real stuff that way," he said. "It 'ud sure make a hit. Canned Tom-and-Jerry, all ready for heatin'."

"And you called Soda-Water Sam," said Miranda Bailey.

"That title was give me in derision," replied Sam. "Me, I don't hesitate to say I like my licker. Likewise I can do 'thout it. They claim that I used to leave nothin' but the sody-water inter a saloon once I'd entered it. Which same is a calummy. Gittin' light in the east, ain't it, folks?"

Coffee-comforted, they made the down-road as the sun rose above the rim of the eastern range, so jagged it seemed trying to claw back the mounting sun. Ever in view below them lay the intermountain valley in which the camp had been located. Its floor was jumbled with hard-cored hills. There was little greenery. A few cottonwoods, fewer willows along the deep bed of a scanty stream. Under the sunrise the whole scene was theatrical with vivid light and shade. The crumpled ground, the deep-ridged hills, all seemed unreal, made up of papier-mâché, crudely modeled and painted, garish, unfinished. The effect was enhanced by the appearance of the one main street of the camp and the few scattering cabins on the hills, the ancient dumps in front of the lateral shafts where the weathered timbers sagged.

There were a few tents, some wagons and picketed horses, and there were a great many machines parked at will. But, from the height, it all looked like the miniature scene of a panoramic model, the houses cardboard, the horses and wagons toys of tin. The horses were the only moving objects, no smoke curled yet from the chimneys.

Here and there unbroken glass in the windows flung back the sun. A door opened and a midget in shirtsleeves came out, stretching arms, palpably yawning. Suddenly smoke jetted from a tumbled chimney, other puffs followed and steady vapors mounted. Ant-like men emerged from every house, gathered in little knots, busied themselves with the horses, hurried back to breakfasts. Faint sounds came up to the travelers.

"W'udn't think that place had been dead as a cemetery fo' years?" commented Sandy. "Stahted up overnight like an old engine. That's the hotel, with the high front. Furniture all in it an' in the cabins. Most of the fixtures left in the saloons, an' there was a plenty of them. Two hotels, five restyronts, seven gamblin' houses, twenty-two saloons an' the rest sleepin' cabins. That was Dynamite. When they git it dusted off and started up it'll run ortermatic."

"Cuttin' out the saloons," said Miranda.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mormon, turning in his seat. "You-all want to remember, ma'am, that this is an unco'porated town an' that's there's allus a shortage of law an' order for a whiles wherever there's a strike, gold, oil or whatever 'tis. Eighty per cent. of the rush is a hard-shelled lot an' erlong with 'em is a smaller bunch that thrives best when things is run haphazard. There'll be licker down there, an' it'll sure be quickfire licker at that. If you warn't the kind you are," added Mormon, "I'd tell you that down there ain't no place fo' a woman?"

"Meanin'?" snapped Miranda Bailey. But there was a gleam in her eye that showed of a compliment accepted.

"Meanin'," said Mormon "that, ef you'll take it 'thout offense, you-all air plumb up-to-date. When wimmen took up the ballot I figger they wasn't on'y ready fo' equal rights, they knew how to git 'em. 'Side from the shootin' end of it, I'd say you was as well equipped as any man to look out fo' yore own interests."

"Thanks," replied Miranda. "I suppose you mean that as a compliment. Also I know one end of a gun from another an' I can hit a barn if it ain't flyin'. Ed, what you stoppin' fer?"

"Blamed if they ain't a puncture," said Ed as he put on the brakes. "We got a spare tire but 'twon't do to spile this 'un. We got to git back some time. Might not be able to buy a spare round here. I got to fix this."

"Fix it when you git down," said his aunt. "Put on the spare. I'm kinder nervous to git my claim staked. There's a sight of folks here. Look at 'em runnin' around like so many crazy chickens. Put on the spare, Ed, while we pile out. An' hurry."

The spare was soon adjusted and they rolled down to the valley and over the dusty road to the camp. Before they reached the main street a car passed them from behind with a rush, driver and passengers reckless, whooping as they rode, one man waving a bottle, another firing his gun into the air.

"That's the kind that'll figger to run Dynamite fo' a while," said Sandy. "I'll bet there ain't twenty old-timers in the camp—real miners, I mean."

The street was alive with changing groups, merging, breaking up to listen to some fresh report of a strike, or opinion as to the prospects. There were no women in sight. The men were of all sorts, from cowboys in their chaps, who had left the range for the chance of sudden wealth, to storekeepers from Hereford and other towns. Excitement reigned, no one was normal. Bottles passed freely. Among the crowd moved shifty-eyed men who had come to speculate. There were gamblers, plain bullies, swaggerers, with here and there a bearded miner, gray of hair and faded blue of eye, either moving steadily through the throng or held up by a little crowd to whom he declaimed with the right of experience. Some, it seemed certain, must be on their claims, but the bulk of the men who filled the street of the resurrected town, were those who prey upon the work and luck of others, camp-followers of the Army of Good Fortune.

Mormon's pronouncement that the town, after its long desertion, had automatically refunctioned, was not far wrong. Rudely lettered signs proclaimed where meals could be bought and boldly announced gambling.

KENO—CHUCKALUCK AND STUD
CRAPS AND DRAW POKER
THE OLD RELIABLE FARO BANK
J. PLIMSOLL, PROP.

read Sandy.

"He's here, lookin' fo' easy money, both ends an' the middle," he drawled. "W'udn't wonder but what we'd rub up ag'in' him 'fo' we leave."

"You'll want to go right through to Molly's claims, I suppose," said Miranda Bailey. "Do you know where they are?"

"I can soon find the location," replied Sandy. "But there ain't any extry hurry. They've been recorded. They'll keep. We'll git us some real hot grub at one of these restyronts an' listen a bit to the news. Find out where is the most likely place fo' you an' yore nevvy to locate."

"Ain't you afraid Plimsoll or some one'll have jumped those claims?" asked the spinster.

"W'udn't be surprised. But there's allus two ways to jump, Miss Mirandy. In an' out. Let's try Cal Simpson's Place. I knew him when he was runnin' a chuck-wagon. He's sure some cook if it's him."

They pressed through the crowded street to the sign. Next door to the cabin that Simpson had preempted on the first-come-first-served order that prevailed, was one of the olden saloons. Through door and window they could see the crowded bar with bottles and tin mugs upon the ancient slab of wood. Over the door the inscription:

ROCKY MOUNTAIN GRAPEJUICE
MULE BRAND
TWO KICKS FOR ONE BUCK

Some looked curiously at Miranda Bailey, but the sight of her escort checked any familiarity. Covered with dust from their ride, guns on hip, the three musketeers did not encourage persiflage at the expense of their outfit and they passed unchallenged into the eating-house where a stubby man with a big paunch shouted greetings at Sandy.

"You ornery son of a gun! An' Mormon. This yore last, Mormon. No? I beg yore pardon, marm. I c'ud have wished Mormon 'ud struck somethin' sensible an' satisfactory at last. It's his loss more'n your'n. What'll you have, folks? I've got steak an' po'k an' beans. Drove over some beef. More comin' ter-morrer. I'll have a real mennoo by the end of the week. Steak? Seguro! Biscuits an' coffee."

He shouted orders to a helper and hurried off to pan-broil the steaks. To the order he added some fried potatoes.

"They ain't on the bill-of-fare," he said. "Try 'em, marm. Hope you strike it lucky, Sandy. Damn few—beggin' yore pahdon, miss—damn few of this crowd ever had a blister on their hands. It ain't like the old days when the sourdoughs made a strike. They worked their own shafts. This bunch specklates on 'em. A claim'll change hands twenty times between now an' ter-morrer night.

"Rush is over fo' the mornin'. I'll sit in with you, if you don't mind. I got my steak in