Chapter II
I
"What d'you want to see me for?"
In a small, dark room in a Prospect hotel, two men sat facing each other over a table.
One was Welland.
The other was Greasy Jones, master of the gang of gunmen dominating the little American port at the head of the route to the Black Elk gold area.
Greasy Jones was medium-sized, thin and wiry, a rapier rather than a bludgeon. His face was artistic, almost delicate, the nose aquiline, the cheek bones prominent, the forehead high. His hands, spread out on the table before him, were long and thin, the kind of hands that are thoroughly at home on the keyboard of a piano. But his skin was too brown and rough for an artist's or musician's, his chin too prominent, his lips too thin and cruelly set, his strange eyes, under the overhanging brows, too hard and keen. The murderer overshadowed the dreamer in his face, his terrible hands were mobile only for the pulling of triggers.
"What d'you want to see me for?" the gangster repeated. "I'm a busy man—can't afford to waste time."
Welland threw a cigar-case on the table and poured out drinks from a convenient bottle.
"So you came, after all," he remarked coolly. "I doubted if you would."
The gangster pushed back his slouch hat and, leaning over, lit his cigar in the candle flame. The action revealed the heavy belt of ammunition he wore buckled over his dingy coat and his battery of revolvers.
"Well, I don't gen'lly pay no attention," he said, smiling, "to strangers that stops me on the street—unless to fill 'em full o' holes for their nerve. But I sized you up, Mister, as diff'runt. An' when you ast me where you could meet me for a talk, well—anyways, here I am."
"Good," said Welland. "Now, before we talk business, Mr. Jones—introductions! On my part, I mean. I don't need them from you."
"No, I guess not," the gangster agreed. "Everybody knows me an' my bunch in this here town, that's straight. Well, go ahead."
"Right. There you are."
The politician, pulling out a wallet and a mass of papers, spread them out before the gangster.
Greasy Jones read them leisurely. When he had finished he knew that his companion was Mr. Steven Molyneux, prominent Canadian M.P., visiting the Black Elk country for a 'look 'round.'
This was bigger game than the gangster usually dealt with. He was impressed but suspicious.
"Say," he queried, pushing back the papers, "what's the game, anyway? Seems mighty queer that a guy like you wants dealin's with a guy like me. Take care, my gent, who you try any foolishness on. Get me?"
"Suppose I convince you that we have something in common—a good deal, in fact. Will you be satisfied?"
"All depends," said Greasy Jones. "Shoot."
In five minutes' hard talking Mr. Welland convinced the skeptical gangster that he, too, had followed the crooked path very closely in his time.
"That's all right," Greasy admitted, "but you're a straight man now—anyhow, in public. This bein' so, what I want to know is: what's the game? What does a fellah 'way up want with a fellah 'way down, as some folks see it, like me? Is it some little job you've got for me—cut someone's throat, eh?"
Welland smiled.
"No, it isn't. I want to help you."
"You do! By God, if you're trying to do the dirty on me——"
Greasy Jones flashed a hand to his hip.
"No, no. Hear me out, can't you?"
"Go ahead."
"All right. And keep your hand off your gun. See here, Mr. Jones. I got into Black Elk Territory about a month ago. I've spent most of my time going 'round having a look at things, with Discovery as my headquarters. Incidentally, I've got in on one or two good claims—but let that keep for a minute. The Mounted Police have given me a free hand to do as I pleased. They allow me to go through Hopeful Pass without question and so on. Just now, I'm supposed to be here looking up some goods of mine that have gone astray—not seeing you. You understand—a man in my position——"
"Yes. Go ahead. Cut it short!"
"Well, they don't suspect anything. Now listen. On the strict Q.T., I've sized up the situation along the creeks and down here in Prospect pretty well. And I've found this: there's a large number of men both sides the line that aren't satisfied with the way the Mounted Police are running things."
"That's right," muttered Greasy fiercely. "The yallah-legged sons o'——!"
"They aren't satisfied," pursued Welland, heedless of the interruption, "and they'd sweep them out of the country if they dared. A lot of men over there on the creeks aren't fit to hold their claims—rich claims. There are others who came into the country weeks after the majority and struck it rich, while the rest go begging. Now, that crowd of discontents along the creeks think this: those fellows who aren't fit to hold those fine rich claims should be told to get off. Those that came into the country last but struck it rich first should be made to hand over their claims, too. The first comers, and the strong men, the men that need the money, should have first show on all the gold on Discovery. That's the way they size it up in the Black Elk country."
"Well—what's that to do with me?"
"I'm coming to that. As I was saying, that's how it's sized up there. And why isn't it so? Because—again—of the Mounted Police, who have the lucky ones under their protection, according to the law.
"Now about the men this side the line. Hundreds, even thousands, this side Hopeful Pass have just as much right to get in on the Black Elk gold as any man alive. But they can't. Again—why?"
"Because the yallah-legs won't let 'em," muttered the gangster.
"Just so. The Mounted Police call them undesirables and shut the door in their faces."
"Well, where do we come in? Cut it short, man; cut it short."
Welland took several leisurely puffs at his cigar. Then, leaning over, he said with marked emphasis:
"We are in sympathy with that discontented crowd—you are—and I am!"
"I am—cert'nly," exclaimed Greasy, looking at him suspiciously; "but you—say!"
"Yes, I am. I'm for justice."
"Like sin!" the gangster sneered. "You're a Canadian M.P. You're on the side o' the law. Your bread's buttered on that side, and you eat it."
"Not at all," declared Welland. "I'm on the side of right, I tell you. I think the laws that govern Black Elk should be made at Discovery, not at Ottawa, and by the miners, not the Police. And the miners that make 'em should be the strong miners, whether in the majority or not. Might makes right in a new country and it ought to here. You agree?"
"I run this town with a hundred gunmen—I've been kep' out o' the Black Elk country by the yallah-legs—an' he asks me do I agree? Cert'nly, I agree!"
"Then why doesn't Might make Right over there?"
"Because o' the yallah-legs."
"Just so. Yet there are only two hundred of them. A few men with guts could soon put them where they belong."
"Huh! You think so. You don't know 'em like I do."
"Have you ever tried to force Hopeful Pass?"
"What's the good? They've got a Maxim and a dozen men in a place 'bout a yard wide! They'd mincemeat us before we got into gun-range. I prefer down here, sir, where the pickin's is easy!"
"You don't think it could be forced? Well, what would you think of this? Stir up the Black Elk country from the inside till every man worth his salt realizes it's time the Police tyranny went out. Then—just tell the Police they must either go or change the laws."
"They wouldn't go."
"Suppose you showed 'em force. Eh?"
"I think they'd fight to the last shot."
Welland was irritated.
"Well, if they did fight? They could be wiped off the map in a minute. It would be ten to one at least."
The gangster frowned.
"Suppose they are wiped out—or kicked out—or they change the laws to let all hands come in and give the claims to the deservin'. Well, what then?"
"Then, my friend, the men that had led the—little protest—would be masters of Black Elk Territory!"
Greasy Jones thoughtfully chewed his cigar, his eyes on the flickering candle flame.
"That's so, by God!" he said at last. "But where—again—do I come in? I can't get through Hopeful Pass to stir up trouble."
"No. But others can—men the Police don't suspect——"
"And me?"
"You'll run the show from this end. You'll organize the whole thing—secretly, of course—and when the time comes, you'll get through Hopeful Pass and take charge."
"Take charge?"
"Yes. Why, can't you see what this means? It needs a man with real guts, who doesn't care a hoot in hell for anyone, to run this thing. You're the man!"
"That's all right," said the gangster cautiously. "I don't care a hoot in hell for any man, that's true. But I ain't goin' to jump into the Police trap in Discovery."
"You won't have to go into the Black Elk Territory till everything's ready. When the time's ripe, we'll see you get there all right—get there just in time to lead the boys. If necessary we'll smuggle you through."
"An' what'll I get out of it?"
"Haven't I said you'd be at the top of the whole thing—boss of Black Elk from end to end? Remember what that means."
"I know what it means," the gangster said, his avaricious eyes gleaming. "I'd have earned it, too. I guess I'd take all the risks. And—what'd you do?"
"I'd help you along in every way while you organized the show and keep you posted on developments. There'd be one condition, though—I'd deal with you only; and you'd have to keep my name out of it."
Greasy nodded.
"Yep, I see your point. 'Twouldn't do for a Canadian M.P. to be mixed up in it," he grinned. "Of course, it's a long chance. S'pose the yallah-legs got wind o' it? Or s'pose, if we did pull it off, they sent soldiers from Canada to smash us? Eh? What then?"
"They won't. And if they did, you'd know about it long before. Then you could take your pickings and 'git.'"
"Give us the idea again—and give it slow."
Welland complied.
"Here's the general scheme—details to be arranged later: You'll send people into Black Elk—people the Police don't suspect—to stir up trouble along the creeks; not to preach violence, mind you, nor yet preach anything openly, but just to get the boys ready. At the same time you'll organize your gunmen here. When the time comes, you and your men get into Black Elk, finish preparing the boys, and then get 'em all together, on the quiet, and throw down your cards. Then, if the Police won't give in, you smash 'em and run the country. If they do give in, you run things to suit yourselves, just the same. Then you get your pickings and clear out. While you're getting your pickings, you get the U.S. Government to promise to annex the Territory. See? That'll keep the Canadian Government quiet and you'll be a hero in the little old U.S."
"What if they don't promise?"
"They'll promise, all right. Anyway, even if they don't, you can tell the boys they have and that'll give 'em all the heart they want."
Greasy pondered again.
"Say, it sounds a fine idea," he admitted at last.
"It is a fine idea!" Welland was quick to press the opening. "Why, it'll be a cinch for you. And you'll get real pickings. A thousand times what you can make by robbery here and not a tenth the risk. Sooner or later, you'll get yours if you stick at this game, whereas if you do what I suggest you'll be able to drop it and live like a king."
"That's so," the gangster agreed. "Now—we might as well talk the thing out, while we're at it—s'pose this thing falls through, in the end. What do I get for my trouble?"
Welland smiled, as though expecting the question.
"There's always that possibility. And, naturally, it wouldn't be fair to you to have a lot of work wasted. Remember my mentioning that I'd some good claims on Discovery? Well, I'll guarantee delivery to you of so much in dust and nuggets every month till the show's ready. That'll pay you for your trouble, won't it? I can do it on the Q.T. and no one the wiser."
"Now you're sayin' something!" declared the gunman. "Wait, now. S'pose I agrees—and me an' my gang works this thing up and pulls it off. Where do you come in? What makes a man like you play with fire like this?"
"I told you, I want to see justice done. Isn't that good enough?"
"No, it ain't."
"Well, it's true."
"Say, come off. This thing's got to be on the square between you an' me or it won't go at all. What's the game?"
"That's true, I tell you," Welland persisted. "Of course, I'd expect my share of the pickings. Isn't that good enough?"
"Your share—that's more like it. Now we know!" the gangster grinned ironically.
"Your answer?"
Again the gangster became cautious.
"I'll have to put it to my bunch—just a few—my 'trusty lieutenants,'" he said. "They'll be the bed-rock o' the whole show, y'see, if it comes off at all."
"All right. There's no hurry," Welland declared. "I'll wait for your answer if you can give it inside twenty-four hours."
"That's all right. I'll do it."
"Good. Remember—no mentioning my name."
"Trust me. I'll be mum as a clam."
Both men were silent. Then, suddenly, the gangster spoke again.
"Say, that's a great idea!" he exclaimed. "You're a real smart kid."
Then, before Welland could move an eye, his two revolvers were on the table, covering the politician.
"You see these guns?" he hissed; and his face was devilish. "They'll pump you full o' lead from head to heel if you're tryin' a double-cross on me. Get me?"
"A double-cross?" asked Welland, with no sign of alarm. "Why should I double-cross you?"
"That's neither here nor there. Just you mark what I said, that's all."
"And in return," said Welland slowly and distinctly, "you'll just remember this: if you give me away to a living soul, by so much as a word, I'll see you cut to pieces. I know just how to get you. And I can get you when I please."
Greasy's eyelids flickered. This man was of a type which was strange to him—one with whom it was not safe to trifle. He might have the power to do as he said. Smiling, he put up his weapons and rose from the table.
"Well, I guess we understand each other, Molyneux. There won't be no double-crossin', here or here. We're pardners, on the square—an' no questions ast. Correct?"
"Correct," said Welland.
"Then shake."
They shook.
"All serene," declared Greasy, this little ceremony over. "Then tomorrow, here, at eleven, if that suits you, I'll let you know whether you can count me in on the—say, what'll we call this thing, anyway?"
Welland smiled.
"The republic," he suggested.
The gangster grinned back.
"That's it—whether you can count me in on the republic."
And they parted.
As the gunman went down the stairs, a man waiting at the foot shrank into a corner to escape his observation. Greasy passed out without seeing him, and the man resumed his post at the foot of the stairs, his eyes on the door of the room where Welland still sat.
II
Six men sat 'round a table in a private room of the Eagle dance-hall, one of Prospect's leading places of entertainment. The door was locked on the inside. Through the flimsy walls the blare of a brass band, shouts, shrieks and laughter rolled into the room from below, and an occasional outburst of firing told of gentlemen exchanging compliments in the street outside.
At the head of the table Greasy Jones presided. His companions were his 'trusty lieutenants,' the leading members of his gang.
The prisons of all ages, the literature of all countries, might be raked through and through without producing a choicer set of villains.
On Mr. Jones' right sat No-nose Joe. As his nickname indicated, the most prominent feature of his face was absent, having been either shot or knocked off. Its absence added a final grand touch of ferocity to an already hideous, unshaven face equipped with piglike eyes. Joe was built on a burly scale and was noted for deeds, not words.
Next to Joe sat Pete, a haggard youth, pale, clean-shaven, sleepy-eyed, but cunning, quick and nervous in all his movements, like a rat.
Monsieur Philibert was at the foot of the table. Philibert's hair, what there was of it, was black, streaked with grey. His straggly beard was also grey, embellished by tobacco juice. He had bright, enquiring brown eyes and hairy hands, like an ape's. Apart from a generous sprinkling of blood-curdling adjectives, occasionally applied, his English was perfect.
The fourth man, Sure-thing Kelly, was plump, ruddy and innocent-looking. As a smiling grocer, he would have been perfect. Actually, he was perfect as a smiling butcher—pistols his tools.
Spanish Alphonze brought up the rear—a sturdily built fellow, with slanting eyes, thin, black, drooping moustache, hair on end, skin the colour of a dried fig. A lady of Seville had decorated him in youth with a livid scar stretching from ear to chin. This made him interesting.
The entire party were heavily armed after the fashion of their master, Greasy Jones, who was quite evidently the brains of the gathering.
Having explained Welland's scheme in his own vivid style, Greasy proceeded to put the finishing touches to his discourse by answering the questions of his interested followers.
"We are to smuggle our men in slowly, so as to have as many as possible over there before the show-down?" The query was Philibert's. "And we go in last to take charge—chiefly because we don't want to risk being landed by the Police before it's strictly necessary?"
"Got it dead right," grinned Greasy.
"And the arms—for the boys already in Black Elk—the boys that need 'em—that we can trust? I suppose we smuggle the arms across as well?"
"Right once more. Your head's screwed on as it should be, Philibert!"
"How're we goin' to stir the boys up?" asked Pete.
"Well, o' course we'll do it secret—an' all constitootunal! My friend, the nameless friend, as I told you before, he says they think the laws is wrong an' should be made by the men in Black Elk, an' that Might makes Right in a new country. This partic'lar crowd over there thinks so, I mean. Well, we must encourage 'em in that—on the Q.T. Tell 'em, quiet, that if force is required, force should be used. Then we provides 'em that ain't got it with the force necessary. 'But,' we says, 'we won't use no force if it ain't required. Oh, no. That'd put us in bad everywhere!' See? Then we tells 'em, 'Look who you've got behind you. The best men on the continent's behind you'—meanin' you an' me, boys—'an' when the time comes, they'll lead you on to vict'ry. But just now it's a secret. See?' An'—more 'n' that!—we'll tell 'em this: 'The Gov'nment o' the U-nited States is behind you! An', with the U-nited States behind you, you can do as you damn well please!' That's what we'll say—later on, when the time's ripe. That'll put guts in 'em. That'll get the Yankee patriots in Black Elk as nothin' else can!"
"Say, you're a ruddy genius, Cap," asserted Sure-thing Kelly. "But say—is the U.S. really goin' to back us up?"
Greasy looked all 'round the table with great effect before replying. Then, leaning over, he whispered, smiling:
"That is a fact, boys, I've got it on good authority from that nameless gent that the li'l old U.S. will see us through."
"Well, say!" exclaimed the listeners, with shining eyes. If anything could completely win them over to the plot, it was this promise of support from a great power—gratuitously given by Greasy Jones on a hint from Welland. This promise, with its assurance that the great United States would save their coward hides if anything, by the slightest chance, went wrong, was a trump card. And Greasy knew it well.
"Is that all clear now? We run the show from here—send our boys over by ones and twos—go over ourselves when ready—take charge—down the yallah-legs—set ourselves up in full command—strip the country—and clear out. Get me?"
"You bet!" said the trusty lieutenants. "We're in this thing up to the neck!"
"Stop a minute!" The keenly perceptive Philibert had one more question to ask. "Who is to do the 'stirring up,' Captain? You'll not want any of us to put our heads in the lion's mouth, I hope?"
"No," replied Greasy. "We'll choose some respectables with the gift o' gab from among us here in Prospect—pay 'em well—oh, yes, we'll have to pay 'em—an' send 'em over to do the talkin' for us. If they're caught, that's their look-out. But they won't be caught. This thing's a dead secret from first to last. Understand that, boys—every man keeps his mouth shut. Before God, if there's a squealer, he'll get his from me!"
His lieutenants knew he would keep his word. There would therefore be no squealing.
"Well, boss, what do we do first?" asked Sure-thing Kelly.
"Nothin' just now—not a word—not a thing—till I say so. I just wanted to get you all in on this tonight. Now, fill the glasses, Pete, an' I'll give you something to drink to. Here y'are, boys"—the gangster rose to his feet, smiling benevolently. "To the finish o' the yallah-legs; an' success to the Black Elk Republic!"
"The Black Elk Republic!"
They drank. Just as he set down his glass Greasy Jones whipped out his revolvers and blazed a volley into the door. The startled men sprang up. Philbert had the door open in an instant.
"Boys, there was someone listenin' outside!" exclaimed the gangster, his cruel face twitching. "By God, I'll kill the man that runs this joint!"
But in the passage there was nothing.
III
When Welland, his business in Prospect transacted, returned to Discovery, he did not know that two pairs of eyes held him under close observation throughout the journey.
In telling Greasy Jones that he had come to Prospect to recover a shipment of goods, the politician had spoken the truth. Having received word of the gangster's successful parley with his lieutenants, Welland traced the goods and hired a packer with two ponies and a partner to carry them through Hopeful Pass to Nugget and there transfer them to the side-wheeler Black Elk Belle, the packer's partner remaining with Welland to see them safely to Discovery, while the packer himself returned with his ponies to Prospect.
To the packer's partner aforesaid belonged one of the two pairs of eyes which kept watch on Welland.
The second pair did duty in the head of a quiet, unobtrusive little miner supposed to be on his way from Prospect to a claim on Discovery Creek.
Of the packer's partner and his watch, the little miner knew nothing. Of the miner and his watch, the packer's partner knew nothing. They worked independently.
On arrival at Discovery, the packer's partner saw the goods safely home. There the Rev. Mr. Northcote welcomed Welland warmly. The Rev., like a true Crusader, believed in fighting his battles in the vanguard, where blows fell thickest and courage was an asset; wherefore he had always been a pioneer and was now in Black Elk Territory, youngest and wildest of Canadian communities. When Mr. Molyneux tired of hotel life in Discovery City, the Rev., swallowing his dislikes and prejudices, had offered the politician half his kingdom, a little shanty not far from barracks. Welland had accepted. Necessity and pioneering make strange bed-fellows.
The question of a job for the packer's partner—who had decided to quit at Discovery—came up at that moment. Welland had promised to help him. The Rev. Mr. Northcote needed a general factotum. The packer's partner had many qualifications. Thenceforth he became Lord Chamberlain to Mr. Northcote and assumed the name of Charlie. That night Charlie wrote a short note and posted it at the barracks. It was addressed to the packer in Prospect. But it was intended for Mr. Greasy Jones.
"Will watch him all right," said the note. "Have a job here that suits it fine."
Mr. Greasy was running no risks of a double-cross!
And the unassuming miner?—went straight from the wharf at Discovery to—Police headquarters.
Ten days later he met with a stray bullet—a real stray, intended for someone else—fired by a member of Greasy's gang in Prospect. A good Samaritan rifled his pockets and buried him.