THE BATTLE OF BALD KNOB
After night had fallen men drifted inconspicuously to the Pony Express Corral. They were armed, all of them with revolvers, two or three with rifles. If any one had studied the faces of the group that gathered round the lantern held by Byers, he would have voted these men hard citizens. Their eyes were steady. They wasted no words and no gestures. Byers had picked them because, as he had put it, “they would stand the gaff.”
Without any discussion of the subject Scot naturally took command of the expedition. He had learned the habit of it during the war.
“You know what we’re going to do,” he said quietly. “The Dodsons have jumped our claims and put up dummies to hold them. We’ll not stand for it. We plan to get the claims back by strategy. Later I’ll tell you how. I suppose Dan has explained to you where you come in. We’ll give leases on Bald Knob to those who go through with us. Understand one thing. We’re not looking for trouble. I don’t want a single shot fired if we can help it. We’re not going to kill anybody. It won’t be necessary. But you boys know Sloan’s gang. They’ll fight if they get a chance. It’s up to us to see that they don’t get that chance.”
An old-timer who had come round the Horn spoke up: “Sounds good, Colonel. How do you aim to get these bully puss men of Dodson’s to give up without snappin’ a cap at us? You sure got me guessin’.”
“That part of the programme comes a little later, Buck,” Scot said, smiling at him. “I think we can pull it off, but I’m not sure. There’s a risk for us. I don’t deny that. They might get one of us. We’ve got to take a chance on that.”
“Let’s get this right, Colonel. Do you mean if they shoot at us we’re not to give ’em what for back?”
“I mean that if there’s only a wild shot or two we’re not to fire back. This isn’t a feud. We want possession of our property. The whole thing will have to be fought out in the courts later, so we don’t want to go to law with a black record of any killings against us. Besides, we’re peaceable citizens who want our rights. We’re not gun-fighters.”
“All right,” grinned Buck. “You’re runnin’ this shebang. I never was in a drift just like this before, but I reckon it’s all right. If I’m the one they get, Colonel, you’ll have to be chief mourner at the plantin’.”
“Don’t worry, Buck. Our diamond drill’s going to strike pay ore sure. It’s the Dodson crowd that’s likely to be in borrasca. Now if you’re all ready we’ll be travelling.”
Byers led the way up the gulch back of the corral. Before the party had gone far a young moon came out and lit the path. They picked their trail through the sage and greasewood to the head of the ravine and followed a draw which took into the cow-backed hills. The pony express rider wound round to the rear of Bald Knob and climbed a spur upon which grew a fairly thick grove of pine nut. Here he stopped.
“Better camp here, I reckon.”
The men unrolled their blankets and prepared a fireless camp. Soon most of them were sound asleep. Scot and Byers moved up the shoulder of the hill to reconnoitre. They knew that guards would be watching to prevent a surprise, so they took precautions against being seen. By following a swale through the brush they were able to come close enough to see dimly the shaft house of the Ground Hog and the slaty dump which straggled below like a thin beard.
“Looks quiet enough,” Scot whispered.
Byers nodded.
“Hugh won’t begin to paint the sky till after midnight,” the Colonel went on. “About that time we’ll bring the men up here into the draw and have them ready. You’re sure that little fellow Madden is all right? He won’t betray us?”
“You can tie to him,” Byers said.
“I don’t doubt his good will. What about his judgment? He looks simple. That’s all right, too, if he’s not shrewd enough not to make a mistake.”
“He won’t.”
“If they suspect a thing it’s all up with the plan.”
“Gotta take a chance.”
“Yes.”
They lay in the sage for hours, the multitudinous voices of the night all about them in whispers of the wind, rustlings of furtive desert dwellers, the stirring of foliage under the caress of the breeze.
McClintock read midnight on the face of his watch and murmured to his companion, “Time to get the men up.”
Byers rose without a word and disappeared in the darkness.
Far away toward the north a faint pink began to paint the sky. The colour deepened till the whole sky above Piodie took on a rose-coloured tint.
The men from the camp below joined Scot. One whispered to another, “Look at the sky, Ben.”
“Fire, looks like. Bet it’s Piodie,” the other said, startled.
“No, it’s not Piodie. It’s the valley back of the big hill north of town,” McClintock told them.
“How do you know, Colonel?” asked the first speaker.
“Because that painted sky is a part of our fireworks,” he answered. “I’ll explain the programme, boys. Madden is to run across the shoulder of the hill toward the Ground Hog. When the guard stops him he’ll shout, ‘Fire in Piodie; whole town burning up.’ He’ll explain that Dodson wants them all to come back to fight fire. My guess is that they’ll take one look at the sky and start north muy pronto. For most of the men guarding the mine own houses in Piodie. The news will spread down the hill, and all we’ll have to do is to walk in and take possession. That is, if we’re lucky.”
“Wow! Some strategy, Colonel. Did they learn you that in the war?” asked the old-timer who had come round the Horn.
“Afraid I can’t take credit for it. Another man made the plan of campaign. It’s up to us to execute it. Ready, Madden?”
“Y’betcha, Colonel.”
McClintock drew him to one side and gave careful instructions. “They’re likely to ask you a lot of questions. Take your time to answer them. You’ll be breathless and panting, because you’ve run all the way from town to bring the news and to get their help. If you can’t think of a good answer tell them you don’t know. You can say the fire was coming down Turkey Creek Avenue when you left and that it was spreading to the residence streets. But don’t know too much. That’s the safest way. You met Bob Dodson and he asked you to come out for help.”
“I’ll say I met him just as I come out from my room fastenin’ my suspenders,” contributed Madden, entering into the spirit of it. “I’ll say I lit a shuck for Bald Knob an’ only hit the high spots on the way.”
“Good. Well, good luck to you.” Scot gave him one more suggestion. “They may leave a man or two at the Ground Hog. If they do, try to lead them round to the north side of the shaft house. We’ll creep up as close as we can and try to surprise them.”
The reaction of Dodson’s mine guards to the news that Piodie was on fire was exactly what the McClintocks had anticipated.
Madden, halted by the sentry, gasped out his message. In an incredibly short time the men were out of their bunks listening to it. Not the faintest gleam of suspicion touched the minds of one of them. Wasn’t the proof of Madden’s story written red in the sky for any of them to read? They plunged back into the bunk house and got into more clothes. As fast as they were ready the men went straggling downhill toward town. Much against his will they had elected a young teamster to stay on guard at the Ground Hog. Madden volunteered to stay with him on duty.
It was easy to lead the teamster round to the north side of the shaft house, from which point they could better view the angry sky and speculate on the progress of the flames.
“Doggone it, tha’s just my luck to be stuck up here whilst the rest of the boys go to town an’ see the fun,” the faithful guard lamented. “I wisht I’d joined the hook an’ ladder comp’ny when I was asked, then I’d sure enough have to go.”
Madden sympathized. It was tough luck. If he wasn’t all tired out running from town he certainly would like to see the fire himself. Sure enough it was an A-1 fire.
They sat down on a pile of timbers that had been hauled up to the Ground Hog for sets to be used in underground work.
A man came round the corner of the shaft house and moved toward them. The guard caught sight of him and remembered what he was there for. He jumped up and pulled out a revolver.
“Keep back there!” he ordered excitedly.
The man moved evenly toward him, hands buried in his trousers pockets.
The guard backed away. “Who are you? Git back there. Hear me? Git back.”
In a duel of wits the man who is certain of himself has the advantage of the one who is not sure. Scot McClintock did not lose a stride. His unhurried indolence radiated confidence.
“Want a little talk with you,” he said quietly. “Thought probably——”
“Git back or I’ll plug you. Sure will.”
“Oh, no. No sense in that. Bob Dodson now——”
The teamster had backed to the wall. He did not know what to do. He could not shoot a man lounging toward him with his hands in his pockets. Perhaps Dodson had sent him, anyhow.
“Did Dodson——?”
The question died in his throat with a gasp of consternation. He recognized now this easy-mannered intruder as the redoubtable Colonel McClintock, and he was not sufficiently alert-minded to meet the situation. If the man had come at him six-shooter in hand, he would have known quickly enough what to do. But in the fraction of time given him he hesitated. McClintock was a big man in the state. The teamster was not sure how far Dodson would back him. He had been hired by Sloan to take orders and not to show initiative. Before he could make up his mind the chance was lost. A dozen men poured round the corner of the house.
Irritably he barked out a question: “What in Mexico you-all doin’ here?”
Colonel McClintock held out his hand smilingly. “Your six-gun please.” Voice and eyes both carried an imperative.
The teamster clung to his long navy revolver. “Looky here. I’m in charge here. Dodson won’t like you fellows hellin’ around the Ground Hog.” His wandering eye took in the flushed sky, and found there a momentary inspiration. “Mebbe you don’t know Piodie is burnin’ up right now. You-all better light out for town.”
McClintock did not answer in words. His steady eyes still held the man with the weapon. His hand was still extended. Reluctantly, against his own volition it seemed, the teamster’s arm moved forward. He was still telling himself he did not intend to give up the six-shooter when Scot’s fingers closed on the barrel.
The two stood a moment, eye to eye. The mine guard’s hand dropped slowly from the butt of the weapon.
“You carry good life insurance, Colonel?” asked drily the old forty-niner.
McClintock divided his command. One third of the men he left with Byers in charge of the Ground Hog. The rest he took with him to the other claims that had been jumped. One of these was deserted. At another they found the guard asleep. The jumpers on Scot’s claim surrendered at discretion to superior numbers. Those who had been left at Vicky’s fired a few wild shots, but as soon as they learned that the Ground Hog had been captured they gave up with the honours of war.
The battle of Bald Knob had been won by the attackers with no casualties.