CHAPTER III. THE HEIR TO RATTLESNAKE GULCH.
For a moment or two after Abe finished his story there was silence. The old guide closed his eyes and leaned back upon the grass. It was not often that he spoke of the past, and the remembrance of that past brought a flood of bitter memories to his mind.
Dave, too, was thinking. He had heard some of the particulars of the life of the “Crow-Killer,” which were current topics in Southern Montana and along the Missouri; but that the great enemy of the Crow nation had married a daughter of that tribe was news to him. The “some things” that had occurred during the married life of the “Crow-Killer,” which he had not explained and barely mentioned in his story, puzzled Dave; it was evident that there was a mystery connected with the past life of Abe Colt, and that the “Crow-Killer” imagined that the Crows held the threads of that mystery, which one day they might unravel.
The thoughts of the two guides were interrupted just then by the approach of two members of the wagon-train. The two men were father and son; their names were, respectively, Eben and Richard Hickman. Eben was a man probably forty-five years of age, large and powerfully built, with an ill-looking, treacherous face, shifting, light-blue eyes, yellow hair and beard, his cheeks thin and hollow, and an expression of greed and cunning upon his features. The son, Richard, resembled the father in looks and build, only with a far better-looking face. His hair was cut short, and the expression upon his features was not an unpleasant one.
The father, Eben, was in business in a little mining town in Southern Montana, known as Spur City; the son had just come from the East, to join the father, who had met him at St. Paul.
“When do we start?” asked Eben Hickman, of the guides.
“To-morrow morning at four,” answered Dave.
“Do you think there is danger from Indians on the way?”
“I can’t say; you heard the news the trapper brought, didn’t you?” asked Dave.
“Yes,” answered Hickman.
“The red devils are on the war-path, but I don’t expect that they can trouble us much, because we’re too many for them. They’ll probably try it, but we’ll flax ’em if they do,” said Dave.
“You think there is danger of an attack then?” questioned the elder Hickman.
“Sart’in!” answered Dave, “jist as sure as we are hyar at Fort Bent to-day.”
“The Indians always attack at night, I believe?” said Eben.
“Yes, generally,” answered the guide, curtly. He had taken a dislike to the Hickmans, both father and son, a dislike he could not well explain.
Eben Hickman stood for a moment as if in thought, then turned to his son. “Come, Richard, we may as well look after our ammunition.” So the two walked back toward the fort.
“Ammunition, blazes!” said Abe, emphatically. “If thar’s any fighting to be done, I guess both of those chaps will be more likely to be behind a wagon than facing the Injuns.”
“That’s what I think,” cried Dave; “I hate the sight of both those fellows, I don’t exactly know why, but I s’pose it’s because I think they’re a couple of cowards.”
“I think thar’s another reason, Dave,” said Abe, in his quiet way; “a pretty good reason, too, an’ that reason’s a female.”
“Eh?” stammered Dave, getting as red in the face as a blushing girl.
“Jus’ so!” responded the “Crow-Killer.” “Guess I ain’t blind yet, Dave. It’s a mighty suspicious sign when a young gal likes to leave the wagons an’ ride alongside of the guides, an’ hear stories ’bout buffler huntin’ an’ Injun fightin’ an’ sich like.”
“Why, you don’t think that Miss Leona cares any thing ’bout me, do you?” asked Dave, anxiously.
“Wal, it’s hard to say; thar’s no tellin’, sometimes, ’bout these gals. I’m death on readin’ Injun sign, but a woman gits me. But, I look at it in this way: when I see the print of a moccasin on the prairie, it’s nat’ral to conclude that some one’s been thar; when I see a young gal likes to be in the company of a young feller, an’ seems to take pleasure in being with him, I don’t think I’m fur off from the trail to say that she likes him. Now that’s just the way this case stands, as near as I can fix it.”
“But, I say, Abe, you’ve forgot one thing: she’s a well brought-up girl, been educated and all that sort of thing, an’ my bringin’ up has been rough; mighty little schooling I’ve been through,” and the young guide shook his head thoughtfully.
“You’re a durned sight better educated than I am,” said Abe, “an’ I reckon I can hold up my head with any man on the upper Missouri; besides, that ain’t every thing; a man must have brains too. This Miss Leona is a sensible gal, I take it; she wants a man to fall in love with—a man with muscle an’ nerve, fit to fight his way through the world, not a dandy chap that would faint at the sight of an ax or at the smell of gunpowder, but a man she can look up to, one that can protect her, care for her an’ love her all at the same time.”
“Yes, I think you are right there; she seems to be a very sensible girl,” replied Dave.
“That’s so,” responded Abe. “I’ve had my eyes open ever since we left St. Paul; she can’t bear the sight of that Dick Hickman, though he’s been trying to be mighty sweet on her. I’ve seen it! She gits out of his way as much as she can, though he’s always arter her. I should think the feller would have sense enough to see that she can’t bear him, but there’s some men in this world haven’t got as much sense as an owl. You see, as I haven’t had any Injun sign to look arter, I’ve been amusing myself by watching the humans round me.”
“You think, then, that the girl likes me?” asked Dave, anxiously.
“Sart’in, I’d go my pile onto it, an’ I ain’t got much to go an’ can’t well aford to lose that little, but I’d bet high on it.”
“But I’m a poor man,” urged Dave.
“Jus’ so, but ’arter we get to Montana we’ll try the gold-diggin’s, an’ who knows we mought make a big strike thar. If the gal does love you, why she’ll wait a little while for you, an’ if she won’t wait, why she don’t love you an’ the quicker you forget her the better; that’s sense, now I tell you.”
“Well, Abe, I believe it is; I have not tried to make the girl love me, but I will try now, and if she does love me, that’s all I ask for in this world”—and the young guide’s face shone with a smile of happiness as he leaned upon his elbow and thought of the golden locks of the pretty Leona, to him the prettiest girl in all the world.
“You’re right, Dave,” said the “Crow-Killer,” thoughtfully, “a good woman’s love is a treasure in this world; years have gone by since I lost my little Injun wife, but I haven’t forgotten her. Thar’s a mystery about her death, for I suppose she was killed when the red-skins burnt my cabin, but I ain’t sure of it. She may be alive, even now, up in the Crow nation. One of these days I’m goin’ to take a party up thar an’ see if I can’t diskiver the truth. Thar’s something else, too, that I want to know; thar’s a sort of suspicion in my mind that thar’s a reason why I an’ the ‘White Vulture’ shouldn’t come together. I want to capture a Crow Injun, an old chief, one as old as myself, if I can, an’ if he’ll only speak the truth to me, he can tell me of some things connected with the Crow nation that I want to know.”
We will now leave the two guides and follow the Hickmans, father and son, as they walked toward the fort.
“That fellow Dave is not over civil,” said the son.
“No,” responded the father, “I don’t think that he bears either of us any great love.”
“I think I can guess the reason,” said Richard, with a sneer.
“That is not difficult to guess,” responded the father, a sneer also upon his lips. “The fellow has a fancy for Leona.”
“Exactly what I think,” said Richard.
“And from what I have seen, I rather fancy that the girl is not indifferent to him,” continued the father.
“I know that she likes him,” responded Richard, savagely, “I see it plain enough. Don’t she ride by his side nearly every day at the head of the train? Hasn’t he been bringing her flowers from the prairie, and don’t she always stick tight in the wagon whenever he’s out on a scout or a hunt, and the moment he returns, don’t she always get tired of being in the wagon and want to ride? Why, it’s as plain as the nose on my face. I tell you, father, what little sense Dave Reed has got is all tangled up in Leona’s red hair. Curse him! for I’ve taken a fancy to the girl, and she don’t seem to care any thing more about me than she does of the dirt under her feet.”
“I am sorry to say, my son, that I think you have spoken the truth. I’m very sorry for it, for I wanted the girl to fall in love with you,” said the father, a crafty smile upon his thin features.
“Well, I know that,” responded the son, moodily. “It was you that put it into my head to make love to her. I shouldn’t have thought of her as a wife but for you. What did you want me to make love to her for?”
“Ah!” and the father shook his head, “that requires an explanation.”
“Well, suppose you explain; I’m tired of working in the dark. I’d like to know what you are driving at.”
“Very well,” and then the father looked carefully around him to see if any one was within hearing, but no one was near. “You know that I left the East a year ago to try my fortunes in Montana. In going across the plains, I made the acquaintance of a man named Daniel Vender—”
“Vender! Why that is Leona’s name,” interrupted the son.
“Exactly; Daniel Vender was her father. On the march we shared the same wagon, and became very intimate. He told me all about himself and his plans. He came from the town of Greenfield in Massachusetts; he had left a daughter behind him there—he had been seized with the Western fever, as they call it; had converted all his valuables into cash, and was going to Montana to embark in mining. If he succeeded and liked the country, it was his intention to send for his daughter and make Montana his home. He took quite a liking to me—we were both about the same age—and proposed to me to join with him in a claim. Well, you of course know, Dick, that I had very little money; so I was glad to join with him. We arrived in Montana safe, and as we couldn’t find a claim to suit us at first, we bought out a trader’s stock and started a store at Spur City. We did first rate, and in a few months had doubled the money we put into it. Then there came a chance to buy a claim in a new mine, just struck, about twenty mile west of us, in a place called Rattlesnake Gulch. The way we worked the store was that Vender put in nine parts of the money and I one. We bought the claim in the same way; so you see that I only had one-tenth interest in it. Well, about two months ago Vender was suddenly taken sick. His sickness did not last long, for in four days from the time he was taken down he died. This would have been a very bad thing for me, for the store and the mine were both making money, but Vender left a will, deeding to me all his property.”
The son looked at the father with a peculiar glance.
“He forgot his daughter in his will entirely then?” he asked.
“Yes.” The tone of Hickman’s voice was hard and dry.
“Wasn’t that rather strange?” questioned the son.
“Perhaps some people might think so,” was the reply, a sly but furtive look appearing in the shifting blue eyes.
“What did the people around there think of it?”
“Oh, nothing was said about it. There wasn’t any one in the whole place except myself knew that he had a child; and besides, as he distinctly said in his will that he left all his property to his cousin, Eben Hickman, what could people say?” asked the father.
“His cousin?” cried the son, in astonishment.
“Yes, that was me, of course. Vender and I came to the town together; he was a quiet sort of a fellow, kept himself to himself, made very few friends and spoke not at all of his private affairs; therefore no one knew any thing about him; no one disputed the will, and I came into possession of all his property,” and the cunning eyes twinkled with delight as he spoke.
“Let me see. I believe you’re quite clever with the pen, ain’t you?” asked the son, with a grin.
“Oh, tolerably clever!” and the old villain chuckled with delight as he thought of the wrong he had done the dead man.
“But, how did you fix it about the witnesses? I should have thought that would have bothered you.”
“Oh, no! I got two drunken miners to affix their names to it; things in the law way are rough out here; no one made any objection to the will, or, in fact, made any inquiry about it at all. I took possession, and of course hold the property now.”
“How much is the whole thing worth?” asked Dick.
“About fifteen thousand dollars,” answered the old man.
“Then this girl, this Leona Vender, is the real heir to—”
“The mine known as Rattlesnake Gulch—exactly,” said the father. “As soon as I had the estate fixed up and properly made over to me, I wrote East for you to come on; and the very same day that I received your letter telling me when you would start, I received a letter from this girl Leona, of course directed to her father, telling him when she would start to join him; and she was to come just one week after you. By her letter, I guessed that Vender had sent her money to come on with—perhaps told her of his success and of his prospects. Now, this letter struck me cold. Of course if she ever arrived at Spur City, she would instantly expose me, and the chances are that, if she ever does get there, proclaims her relationship with Daniel Vender and denounces me as an impostor, the citizens of Spur City will give me a taste of Judge Lynch, for justice is very speedy in the mountain region when they once get their hands in.”
“What do you think of doing?” asked the son, anxiously.
“In the first place, let me see what I have done, so as to make the case all complete,” said Eben. “I wrote you that I would meet you at St. Paul. I did so. The girl, in her letter, said that she also would come by that route. That was the reason why we waited a week there; you remember you wondered at my delay. Well, I was waiting for her. I kept close watch. At last she came; I found out all about her, and made arrangements to come in the same wagon-train. Now, then, this was my calculation. I was pretty sure that Vender had never written his daughter any thing about me. I took pains to be introduced to her. I noticed that she manifested no surprise at the mention of my name, which convinced me that my suspicions were right and that she had never heard of me. If you remember, I cautioned you not to say any thing about Spur City, or that I knew any thing of the place, to any of our companions. My first plan was this: I thought that the girl on the journey might take a fancy to you; if she would only fall in love with and marry you, why then every thing would be all right, for, of course she wouldn’t want to prosecute her father-in-law for forgery, and the whole affair would be settled forever.”
“Yes,” responded Dick, dryly, “but she isn’t a-going to take a fancy to me. I think, father, that she would be just as likely to fall in love with you as with me. That cursed guide has got her eye; his copper-colored skin and Indian-looking head have taken her for all she’s worth.”
“He might be got out of the way,” suggested the father, a treacherous gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, but not by violence; he’s an ugly customer to handle. Besides, I don’t think the girl would like me any way, the little red-headed minx—”
“Gold! golden hair, you know,” interrupted the father.
“It’s near enough to red, any way, but that of course ain’t neither here nor there; the girl don’t like me; there’s no use beating about the bush in this matter. We might as well fix it out straight, and I don’t think she would ever like me, even if this guide, Dave Reed, was out of the way altogether.”
“As you say, we might as well understand the matter,” rejoined the father. “One thing is certain—that girl must go into Spur City your wife, or not go into it at all.” There was menace in this speech of Eben Hickman, which boded no good to the orphan girl.
The two walked on thoughtfully for a few moments, the father watching the son’s face from under his yellow eyebrows. At last, Dick spoke:
“I don’t see very well how you can make the girl marry me, unless she wants to, and if she don’t want to, as is very evident, I don’t see how you’re going to keep her from going to Spur City.”
The elder Hickman looked around again carefully; no one was near; then lowering his voice almost to a whisper he asked:
“You heard my conversation with the guide, didn’t you?”
“Yes, what of it?” asked Dick. “What has that to do with us?”
“A great deal! You heard him say that there was danger of an Indian attack, and that the Indians generally attack at night?”
“Yes, I heard that too; but, come to the point; what do you mean?” asked Dick, impatiently.
“Why, Indian bullets respect no one. If the savages attack us in the night, they are just as likely to kill her as any one else.”
The son did not fully read the father’s language.
“Yes, but she will be in a wagon, protected somewhat, and she may escape unharmed.”
The father put his mouth close to his son’s ear.
“If the Indians attack us, she will be killed!”
Dick started in surprise; he understood his father now.
“But the danger of detection!” he cried, in a low tone.
“None at all. In the confusion of a night attack, who can tell whether a shot is fired outside the camp or within it?” asked the father.
“Very true; but, suppose the Indians do not attack us?”
“Then I’ll think of some other way before we reach Montana.”
The precious pair of villains walked back to the fort, having come to an understanding.