ON THE SPAWN CITY TRAIL
Wild Bill’s lean hands clawed the reins with muscles of steel. For the moment his six horses occupied his every thought. They were pulling with the madness of high-bred racehorses. The trail lay before them, their master sat behind. What more could they want, but that liberty to stretch their willing bodies?
Down the hill and along the wood-lined trail that ran parallel to the sluggish creek they raced. The dust rose under their feet, and the wheels of the cart left a fog behind them. It rose in swirling clouds as though to shut off all retreat. Presently the road narrowed to a mere track, and the dark woods closed in. But there was no slackening under the hand of the gambler. Nor had the horses any desire to slacken their headlong rush. The woods broke and gave to a low bush, and in a moment the track opened upon Scipio’s claim.
Now, for the first time since the start as they swept across it, Bill permitted his gaze to wander from his charges. He looked away at the mouth of the tunnel Sandy had spent so much labor and such bitter cursing in the process of constructing; and a half-smile flitted across his hard face as he beheld the oozy débris, the idle tools, the winch and buckets. The sight seemed to afford him amusement. There was a softening, too, in his hard face. Maybe it was the result of his amusement. Maybe it was due to some thought of the little man with whom he was partners. But he seemed to freeze up again as the claim passed, and the horses floundered over the heavy trail beside the black, oily swamp beyond. It was bad driving here, and he steadied the racing creatures down with voice and hand.
“Easy, Gipsy. Easy you, Pete. Now Maisie. So! Steady, boys. Easy!”
The harsh voice was hushed and gentle. He was speaking to creatures that were not merely horses to him, but something nearer, perhaps even dearer.
And the well-trained creatures responded at once, slowing to an easy trot, a pace which they kept until the ford of the creek was reached. Here they dropped to a walk as they splashed their way through the turgid stream. But the moment the wheels of the cart topped the opposite bank, they once more resumed their headlong gait.
At once the gambler sat up. He straightened his lean body as a man who opens his lungs to breathe in deep draughts of fresh, bracing air. His narrow eyes stared out aside of him and beyond. His nostrils expanded, and his thin lips were tightly shut.
The camp was behind him. The trail, a hard, wide sand trail, lay ahead. The wide, wild world was about him on every hand, reminding him of days long gone by, reminding him that to-day his instincts were still the same. The same fiery, militant spirit that had driven him from one end of his country to the other still left him yearning for the ruthless battle of wild places and wilder men. The long months of inactivity, the long days of peace, the longer nights of his gambler’s craft, were for the moment gone. He was setting out, as in the old days, surrounded by all in life he cared for, offering a challenge to all the world, ready to grapple with whatsoever the gods of war might choose to thrust in his way.
The man’s spirits rose. The swift-flashing eyes brightened. His body felt to be bursting with a ravishing joy of life. His purpose was his own. The joy was his alone. He had found excuse for satisfying his own greedy lust, a lust for battle which no overwhelming odds could diminish. He was a savage. He knew it; he gloried in it. Peace to him was a wearisome burden of which at all times he was ready to rid himself. So he was born. So he had always lived. So, he knew, he would die.