It was a spectacle in which he found the greatest pleasure. The men were clad in their work-stained clothing, their only clothing. Their faces remained unwashed, and still bore the accumulations of dusty sweat from their day’s fevered labors. But it was the light in their eyes, their grinning faces, the buoyancy of their gait that held him. He heard their voices lifted in such a tone as would have seemed impossible only a few days ago. The loud, harsh laugh, accompanying inconsequent jests and jibes, it was good to hear. These men were tasting the sweets of a moment of perfect happiness. Buck knew well enough that soon, probably by the morrow, the moment would have passed, and they would have settled again to the stern calling of their lives.
All his sympathy was with them, and their joy was reflected in his own feelings. Their hope was his hope, their buoyancy was his buoyancy. For his happiness was complete at the moment, and thus he was left free to feel with those others. Such was his own wonderful exaltation that the thought of the termination of these people’s suffering was the final note that made his joy complete.
He laid his fork aside and waited till they had passed his retreat. The object of their journey was obviously the farmhouse, and he felt that he must learn their further purpose. He remembered Joan’s going from him. He had seen the pain and trouble in her beautiful eyes, and so he feared that the sudden rush of animal spirits in these people would drive them to extravagances, well enough meant, but which might worry and even alarm her.
He moved quickly out of the barn and looked after them. They had reached the house, and stood like a herd of subdued and silly sheep waiting for a sign from their leader. It was a quaint sight. The laugh and jest had died out, and only was the foolish grin left. Yes, they certainly had a definite purpose in their minds, but they equally certainly were in doubt as to how it should be carried out.
Buck drew nearer without attracting their attention. The men were so deeply engaged with the dilemma of the moment that he might almost have joined the group without observation. But he merely desired to be on hand to help should the troubled girl need his help. He had no desire to take active part in the demonstration. As he came near he heard Beasley’s voice, and the very sound of it jarred unpleasantly on his ears. The man was talking in that half-cynical fashion which was never without an added venom behind it.
“Well,” he heard him exclaim derisively, “wot’s doin’? You’re all mighty big talkers back ther’ in camp, but I don’t seem to hear any bright suggestions goin’ around now. You start this gorl-durned racket like a pack o’ weak-headed fools, yearnin’ to pitch away what’s been chucked right into your fool laps jest fer one o’ Blue Grass Pete’s fat-head notions. Well, wot’s doin’? I ask.”
“You ke’p that ugly map o’ yours closed,” cried Pete hotly. “You ain’t bein’ robbed any.”
“Guess I’ll see to that,” retorted Beasley, with a grin. “The feller that robs me’ll need to chew razors fer a pastime. If it comes to that you’re yearnin’ fer glory at the Padre’s expense—as usual.”
Buck’s ears tingled, and he drew closer. Beasley always had a knack of so blending truth with his personal venom that it stung far more than downright insult. He wondered what the Padre’s generosity had been, and wherein lay its connection with their present purpose. The explanation was not long in coming, for Montana Ike took up the challenge amidst a storm of ominous murmurs from the gathered men.
“Don’t take nuthin’ from him,” cried the youngster scornfully. Then he turned on Beasley fiercely. “You need Buck around to set you right, Mister Lousy Beasley,” he cried. “We ain’t robbin’ anybody, an’ sure not the Padre. He found that nugget, an’ it’s his to give or do wot he likes with. The gal brought us the luck, an’ the Padre guessed it was only right she should have the first find. That nugget was the first find, an’ the Padre found it. Wal!” But as no reply was forthcoming he hurried on, turning his tongue loose in the best abuse he could command at the moment. “You’re a rotten sort o’ skunk anyway, an’ you ain’t got a decent thought in your diseased head. I’d like to say right here that you hate seein’ a sixty-ounce lump o’ gold in any other hands than your own dirty paws. That’s your trouble, so jest shut right up while better folks handles a matter wot’s a sight too delicate fer a rotten mind like yours.”