"I will," promised Patty, and thus a.s.sured the girl curled up in the hay and in a moment was fast asleep.

Hour after hour as the horses plodded along the interminable trail, Patty Sinclair sat upon the hard wooden seat, while her thoughts ranged from plans for locating her father's lost claim, to the arrangement of her cabin; and from Vil Holland to the welfare of the girl, a pathetic figure as she lay sprawled upon the hay, with her bare legs, and the gray dust settling thickly upon her red dress and vivid pink sunbonnet.

CHAPTER IV

MONK BETHUNE

"When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be, When the devil got well, the devil a monk was he."

Pippin Larue chanted tipsily, as he strummed softly the strings of a m.u.f.fled banjo. And Raoul Bethune, with the flush of liquor upon his pale cheeks, joined in the laugh that followed, and replenished his gla.s.s from the black bottle he had contrived to smuggle from the hospital stores when he had been returned to his room in the dormitory. And "Monk" Bethune he was solemnly rechristened by the half-dozen admiring satellites who had foregathered to celebrate his recovery from an illness. All this was long ago. Monk Bethune's dormitory life had terminated abruptly--for the good of the school, but the name had fastened itself upon him after the manner of names that fit. It followed him to far places, and certain red-coated policemen, who knew and respected his father, the Hudson Bay Company's old factor on Lake o' G.o.d's Wrath, hated him for what he had become.

They knew him for an inveterate gambler who spent money freely and boasted openly of his winnings. He was soft of voice and mild of manner and aside from his pa.s.sion for gambling, his conduct so far as was known was irreproachable. But, there were wise and knowing ones among the officers of the law, who deemed it worth their while to make careful and un.o.btrusive comparison between the man's winnings and his expenditures. These were the men who knew that certain Indians were being systematically supplied with whisky, and that there were certain horses in Canada whose brands, upon close inspection, showed signs of having been skillfully "doctored," and which bore unmistakable evidence of having come from the ranges to the southward of the international boundary.

But, try as they might, no slightest circ.u.mstance of evidence could they unearth against Bethune, who was wont to disappear from his usual haunts for days and weeks at a time, to reappear smiling and debonaire, as unexpectedly as he had gone. Knowing that the men of the Mounted suspected him, he laughed at them openly. Once, upon a street in Regina, Corporal Downey lost his temper.

"You'll make a mistake sometime, Monk, and then it will be our turn to laugh."

"Oh-ho! So until I make a mistake, I am safe, eh? That is good news, Downey--good news! Skill and luck--luck and skill--the tools of the gamblers' trade! But, granted that sometime I shall make a mistake--shall lose for the moment, my skill; I shall still have my luck--and your mistakes. You are a good boy, Downey, but you'll be a glum one if you wait to laugh at my mistakes. If I were a chicken thief instead of a--gambler, I should fear you greatly."

Downey recounted this jibe in the barracks, and the officers redoubled their vigilance, but the Indians still got their whisky, and new horses appeared from the southward.

When Monk Bethune refused Ma Watts's invitation to dinner, and rode off down the creek followed by Lord Clendenning, the refusal did not meet the Englishman's unqualified approval, a fact that he was not slow in imparting when, a short time later, they made noonday camp at a little spring in the shelter of the hills.

"I say, Monk, what's this bally important business we've got on hand?"

he asked, as he adjusted a refractory hobble strap. "Seems to me you threw away an excellent opportunity."

Bethune grinned. "Anything that involves the loss of a square meal, is a lost opportunity. You're too beefy, Clen, a couple of weeks on pilot bread and tea always does you good."

"I was thinking more of the lady."

"La, la, the ladies! A gay dog in your day--but, you've had your day.

Forget 'em, Clen, you're fifty, and fat."

"I'm forty-eight, and I weigh only fifteen stone as I stand,"

corrected the Englishman solemnly. "But layin' your b.l.o.o.d.y jokes aside, this particular lady ought to be worth our while."

Bethune nodded, as he sc.r.a.ped the burning ends of the little sticks closer about the teapot. "Yes, decidedly worth while, my dear Clen, and that's where the important business comes in. Those who live by their wits must use their wits or they will cease to live. I live by my wits, and you by your ability to follow out my directions. In the present instance, we had no plan. We could only have sat and talked, but talk is dangerous--when you have no plan. Even little mistakes are costly, and big ones are fatal. Let us go over the ground, now and check off our facts, and then we can lay our plans." As he talked, Bethune munched at his pilot bread, pausing at intervals for a swallow of scalding tea.

"In the first place, we know that Rod Sinclair made a strike. And we know that he didn't file any claim. Why? Because he knew that people would guess he had made a strike, and that the minute he placed his location on record, there would be a stampede to stake the adjoining claims--and he was saving those claims for his friends."

"His strike may be only a pocket," ventured Clendenning.

"It is no pocket! Rod Sinclair was a mining man--he knows rock. If he had struck a pocket he would have staked and filed at once--and taken no chances. I tell you he went back East to let his friends in. The fool!"

The Englishman finished his tea, rinsed out his tin cup in the spring, and filled his pipe. "And you think the girl has got the description?"

Bethune shook his head. "No. A map, perhaps, or some photographs. If she had the description she would not have come alone. The friends of her father would have been with her, and they would have filed the minute they hit the country. It's either a map, or nothing but his word."

"And in either case we've got a chance."

"Yes," answered Bethune, viciously. "And this time we are not going to throw away our chance!" He glanced meaningly at the Englishman, who puffed contentedly at his pipe.

"Sinclair was too shrewd to have carried anything of importance, and there would have been blood on our hands. As it is, we sleep good of nights."

Bethune gave a shrug of impatience. "And the gold is still in the hills, and we are no nearer to it than we were last fall."

"Yes, we are nearer. This girl will not be as shrewd as her father was in guarding the secret, if she has it. If she hasn't it our chance is as good as hers."

"And so is Vil Holland's! He believes Sinclair made a strike, and now that Sinclair is out of the way, you may be sure he will leave no stone unturned to horn in on it. The gold is in these hills and I'm going to get it. If I can't get it one way, I will get it another."

The quarter-breed glanced about him and unconsciously lowered his voice. "However, one could wish the girl had delayed her visit for a couple of weeks. A person slipped me the word he could handle about twenty head of horses."

The Englishman's face lighted. "I thought so when you began to d.i.c.ker with Watts for his pasture. We'll get him his bally horses, then. This horse game I like, it's a sportin' game, and so is the whisky runnin'.

But I couldn't lay in the hills and shoot a man, cold blooded."

"And you've never been a success," sneered Bethune. "You never had a dollar, except your remittance, until you threw in with me. And we'd have been rich now, if it hadn't been for you. I tell you I know Sinclair carried a map!"

"If he had, we'll get it. And we can sleep good of nights!"

"You're a fool, Clen, with your 'sleep good of nights!' I sleep good of nights, and I've--" he halted abruptly, and when he spoke again his words grated harsh. "I tell you this is a fang and claw existence--all life is fang and claw. The strong rip the flesh from the bones of the weak. And the rich rip their wealth from the clutch of a thousand poor. What a man has is his only so long as he can hold it. One man's gain is another man's loss, and that is life. And it makes no difference in the end whether it was got at the point of the pistol in defiance of law, or whether it was got within the law under the guise of business. And I don't need you to preach to me about what is wrong, either."

The Englishman laughed. "I'm not preaching, Monk. Anyone engaged in the business we're in has got no call to preach."

"We're no worse than most of the preachers. They peddle out, for money, what they don't believe."

"Heigh-ho! What a good old world you've painted it! I hope you're right, and I'm not as bad as I think I am."

Bethune interrupted, speaking rapidly in the outlining of a plan of procedure, and it was well toward the middle of the afternoon when the two saddled up and struck off into the hills in the direction of their camp.

Twilight had deepened to dusk as Patty Sinclair pulled her team to a standstill upon the rim of the bench and looked down upon the twinkling lights of the little town that straggled uncertainly along the sandy bank of the shallow river.

"Hain't it grand lookin'?" breathed Microby Dandeline who sat decorously booted and stockinged upon the very edge of the board seat.

"You wouldn't think they wus so many folks, less'n you seen 'em yers'f. Wisht I lived to town, an' I wisht they'd be a circust."

Patty guided the horses down the trail that slanted into the valley and crossed the half-mile of "flats" whose wire fences and long, clean-cut irrigation ditches marked the pa.s.sing of the cattle country.

A billion mosquitoes filled the air with an unceasing low-pitched drone, and settled upon the horses in a close-fitting blanket of gray.

The girls tried to fight off the stinging pests that attacked their faces and necks in whirring clouds. But they fought in vain and in vain they endeavored to urge the horses to a quickening of their pace, for impervious alike to the sting of the insects and the blows of the whip, the animals plodded along in the unvarying walk they had maintained since early morning.

"This yere's the skeeter flats," imparted Microby, between slaps.

"They hain't no skeeters in the mountains, mebbe it's too fer, an'

mebbe they hain't 'nough folks fer 'em to bite out there, they's only us-uns an' a few more." As the girl talked the horses splashed into the shallow water of the ford and despite all effort to urge them forward, halted in mid-stream, and sucked greedily of the crystal-clear water. It seemed an hour before they moved on and a.s.sayed a leisurely ascent of the opposite bank. The air became pungent with the smell of smoke. They were in town, now, and as the wagon wheels sank deeply into the soft sand of the princ.i.p.al street, Patty noted that in front of the doors of most of the houses, slow fires were burning--fires that threw off a heavy, stifling smudge of smoke that spread lazily upon the motionless air and hung thick and low to the ground.

"Skeeter smudges," explained Microby proud of being the purveyor of information, "towns has 'em, an' then the skeeters don't bite. Oh, look at the folks! Lest hurry up! They might be a fight! Las' time they wus a fight an' a breed cut a man Pap know'd an' the man got the breed down an' stomped on his face an' the marshal come an' sp'ilt hit, an' the man says if he'd of be'n let be he'd of et the breed up."