THE TRUST
It was a blazing afternoon of the “stewing” type. The flies in the store kept up a sickening hum, and tortured suffering humanity––in the form of the solitary Minky––with their persistent efforts to alight on his perspiring face and bare arms. The storekeeper, with excellent forethought, had showered sticky papers, spread with molasses and mucilage, broadcast about the shelves, to ensnare the unwary pests. But though hundreds were lured to their death by sirupy drowning, the attacking host remained undiminished, and the death-traps only succeeded in adding disgusting odors to the already laden atmosphere. Fortunately, noses on Suffering Creek were not over-sensitive, and the fly, with all his native unpleasantness, was a small matter in the scheme of the frontiersman’s life, and, like all other obstructions, was brushed aside physically as well as mentally.
The afternoon quiet had set in. The noon rush had passed, nor would the re-awakening of the camp occur until evening. Ordinarily the quiet of the long afternoon would have been pleasant enough to the hard-working storekeeper. For surely there is something approaching delight in the leisure moments of a day’s hard and prosperous work. But just now Minky had little ease of mind. And these long hours, when the camp was practically deserted, had become a sort of nightmare to him. The gold-dust stored in the dim recesses of his cellars haunted him. The outlaw, James, was a constant dread. For he felt that his store held a bait which might well be irresistible to that individual. Experienced as he was in the ways of frontier life, the advent of the strangers of the night before had started a train of alarm which threatened quickly to grow into panic.
He was pondering this matter when Sunny Oak, accompanied by the careless Toby Jenks, lounged into the store. With a quick, almost furtive eye the storekeeper glanced up to ascertain the identity of the newcomers. And, when he recognized them, such was the hold his alarm had upon him, that his first thought was as to their fitness to help in case of his own emergency. But his fleeting hope received a prompt negative. Sunny was useless, he decided. And Toby––well, Toby was so far an unknown quantity in all things except his power of spending on drink the money he had never earned.
“Ain’t out on your claim?” he greeted the remittance man casually.
“Too blamed hot,” Toby retorted, winking heavily.
Then he mopped his face and ordered two whiskies.
“That stuff won’t cool you down any,” observed Minky, passing behind his counter.
“No,” Toby admitted doubtfully. Then with a bright look of intelligence. “But it’ll buck a feller so it don’t seem so bad––the heat, I mean.” His afterthought set Sunny grinning.
Minky set out two glasses and passed the bottle. The men helped themselves, and with a simultaneous “How!” gulped their drinks down thirstily.