There was no surveyor nearer than two hundred miles, with Pratt, as Van expressed it, "camping with the foe." He had shaken his partners untimely from their beds that morning--(the trio were mining nights, on the four-to-midnight shift)--and busied them all with the work of the day, by way of making preparations.

He spent nearly twenty silver dollars on the wire, telegraphing various towns to secure a competent man. He sent a friend to the Government office, where Lawrence was up to his ears in work, and procured all the data, including metes and bounds, of the reservation tract before its fateful opening.

The day was consumed in the petty affairs attendant upon such a campaign. When his three old partners went away to their work at four o'clock in the afternoon, a wire had come from far out north that a man who was competent to run the line was starting for Goldite forthwith.

The moonless night, at ten o'clock, found Van alone at his tent. From the top of the hill whereon he had camped a panoramic view of all the town swung far in both directions. The glare of the lamps, the noise of life--even the odor of man upon the air--impinged upon his senses here, as he sat before the door and gazed far down upon it. He thought that man with his fire, smells, and din made chaos in a spot that was otherwise sacred to nature.

He thought of the ceaseless persistence with which the human family haunts all the corners of the earth, pursues life's mysteries, invades its very G.o.d. He thought of this desert as a place created barren, lifeless, dead, and severe for some inscrutable purpose--perhaps even fashioned by the Maker as His place to be alone. But the haunter was there with his garish town, his canvas-tented circus of a day, and G.o.d had doubtless moved.

How little the game amounted to, at the end of a man's short span!

What a senseless repet.i.tion it seemed--the same old comedies, the same old tragedies, the same old bits of generosity, and greed, of weakness, hope, and despair! Except for a warm little heartful of love--ah _love_! He paused at that and laughed, unmirthfully. That was the thing that made of it a Hades, or converted the desert into heaven!

"Dreamers! dreamers--all of us!" he said, and he went within to flatten down his blankets for the night.

He had finally blown out his candle and stretched himself upon the ground, to continue his turmoil of thinking, when abruptly his sharp ear caught at a sound as of someone slipping on a stone that turned, just out upon the slope. He sat up alertly.

Half a minute pa.s.sed. Then something heavy lurched against the tent, the flap was lifted, and a man appeared, stooped double as if in pain.

"Who's there?" demanded Van. "Is that you, Gett?" He caught up his gun, but it and the hand that held it were invisible.

"It's me," said a voice--a croaking voice. "Matt Barger."

He fell on the floor, breathing in some sort of anguish, and Van struck a match, to light the candle.

The flame flared blindingly inside the canvas whiteness. A great, moving shadow of Van was projected behind him on the wall. The light gleamed brightly from his gun. But it fell on an inert ma.s.s where Barger had fallen to the earth.

He did not move, and Van, mechanically igniting the candle's wick, while he eyed the man before him, beheld dry blood, and some that was fresh, on the haggard face, on the tattered clothing, and even on one loose hand.

"Barger!" he said. "What in thunder, man----"

The outlaw rallied his failing strength and raised himself up on one hand. He could barely speak, but his lips attempted a smile.

"I thought I heard you--call fer the joker," he said, "and so--I come."

Van was up. He saw that the man had been literally shot to pieces.

One of his arms was broken. A portion of his scalp was gone. He was pierced in the body and leg. He had met the posse, fought his fight, escaped with wounds that must have stopped any animal on earth, and then had dragged himself to Van, to repay his final debt.

"I haven't called--I haven't called for anything," said Van. "You're wounded, man, you're----"

Barger rose up weakly to his knees.

"Need the money, don't you--now?" he interrupted. "You can--use the reward, I guess."

"Good G.o.d, I don't want that kind of money!" Van exclaimed. "Who got you, Matt--who got you?"

"Sheriff," said the convict dispa.s.sionately. "Good man, Christler--and a pretty good shot--but I got away with his lead."

He slumped again, like a waxen thing on melting props, deprived of all support.

Van plunged out to the water bench, with its bucket, near the door. He brought back a basin of water, knelt on the ground, and bathed the convict's face. He poured some liquor between the dead-white lips. He slashed and unb.u.t.toned the clothing and tried to staunch the wounds.

He bound up the arm, put a bandage on the leg and body, continuing from time to time to dash cold water in the pallid, bearded face.

Barger had fainted at last. What hideous tortures the fellow had endured to drag and drive himself across the mountain roughnesses to win to this tent, Van could but weakly imagine.

The convict finally opened his eyes and blinked in the light of the candle.

"What in h.e.l.l--was the use of my comin' here," he faltered, "if you don't take the money--the reward?"

"I don't want it!" said Van. "I told you that before."

Barger spoke with difficulty.

"It's different now; they've--got you in a hole. Van Buren, I'm your meat! I'm--nuthin' but meat, but you acted--as if I was a man!"

"We're all in a hole--it's life," said Van, continuing his attentions to the wounds. "I don't want a cent of blood-money, Matt, if I have to starve on the desert. Now lie where you are, and maybe go to sleep.

You won't be disturbed here till morning."

"By mornin'--all h.e.l.l can't--disturb me," Barger told him painfully, with something like a ghastly smile upon his lips. "I'm goin'--there to see."

He lapsed off again into coma. Van feared the man was dead. But having lived a stubborn life, Barger relinquished his hold unwillingly, despite his having ceased at last to care.

For nearly an hour Van worked above him, on the ground. Then the man not only aroused as before, but sat up, propped on his arm.

"G.o.d, I had to--wake!" he said. "I was sure--forgettin' to tell you."

Van thought the fellow's mind was wandering.

"Lie down, Matt, lie down," he answered. "Try to take it easy."

"Too late--fer me to take--anything easy," replied the outlaw, speaking with a stronger voice than heretofore. "Gimme a drink of whisky."

Van gave him the drink and he tossed it off at a draught.

"I said to myself I'd be--hanged if I'd tell you, that--day you cheated the quicksand," Barger imparted jerkily, "but you've got--a--right to know. McCoppet and that--pal of his give Lawrence twenty thousand--dollars, cash, to queer you on the--reservation line and run you off your claim."

Van scrutinized the sunken face and glittering eyes with the closest attention.

"What's that?" he said. "Bought Lawrence to fake out the reservation line? Who told you, Matt? Who told you that?"

The convict seemed to gain in strength. He was making a terrible effort to finish all he had to impart.

"Trimmer put me--on to all the game. It was him that told me--you was goin' through, when I--pretty near got you, in the pa.s.s."

Van's eyes took on a deep intensity.

"Trimmer? Trimmer?"

"Larry Trimmer--Pine-tree Trimmer," explained the convict impatiently.