Louisiana Lou / A Western Story

by William West Winter

He and his brother, he told De Launay, while assisting him to put up his horse, were two Basques who had come out here fifteen years ago and had worked as herders until they had been able to save enough to go into business for themselves. They had gradually built up until, when Ike Brandon had died, they were in a position to buy his ranch. All of this was interesting to the soldier.

The first flush of his plunge into old scenes had faded out, and he was feeling a little lonely and depressed, missing, queerly enough, his occasional contact with mademoiselle. It came over him, suddenly, as he chattered with the Basque, in the kindly French tongue that was more familiar to him than his native English, that the vague dread that had been lifted had had to do with what he might expect at Brandon’s ranch. That dread had vanished when he had encountered Miss Pettis. That was queer, too, for 164 his recent debauch had been the product of sharp disappointment at finding her, as well as the country, so changed from what he had expected. Then why should he now feel as though a load were lifted from his mind since he had seen her and found her utterly wanting in any trait that he regarded as admirable? He did not know, and for the time being he did not pause to inquire. With the directness born of long training in arms, he had a mission to pursue and he gave his thought to that.

The obvious thing was to question the Basque as to long-ago events. But here he drew blank. Neither this man nor his brother knew anything but vague hearsay, half forgotten. They had, it is true, known the story of Pierre d’Albret and his murder, and had looked for his mine as others had, but they had never found it and were inclined to doubt that it had ever existed.

“Monsieur,” said the hospitable Basque, as he set an incomprehensible stew of vegetables and mutton on the table before the hungry De Launay, “these stories have many endings after so many years. It was long after D’Albret was killed that we came into this country. It was spoken of at the time as a great mystery by some, and by others it was regarded as a settled affair. One side would have it that a man who was a desperado and a murderer had done it, while others said that it would never be known who had shot him. There is only this that I 165 know. A man named Banker, who spends all his time searching for gold, has spent year after year in searching the Esmeraldas for D’Albret’s mine and, although he has never found it, he still wanders in the hills as though he believed that it would be found at last. Now, why should this Banker be so persistent when others have abandoned the search long ago?”

“I suppose because it is his business, as much as he has any, to search for gold wherever there is prospect of finding it,” said De Launay, carelessly.

“That may be so,” said the Basque, doubtfully, “As for me, I do not believe that the mine was in the Esmeraldas at all. I have looked, as others have, and have never seen any place where D’Albret might have dug. I have been through Shoestring Cañon many times and have seen every foot of its surface. If D’Albret came through the cañon, as he must have done, he must have left some sign of his digging. Yet who has ever found such indications?”

“Perhaps he covered it up?”

“Perhaps! I do not know. The man, Banker, searches, not only in the cañon but also throughout the range. And as he searches, he mutters to himself. He is a very strange man.”

“Most prospectors, especially the old ones, are strange. The loneliness goes to their heads.”

“That is true, monsieur, and it is the case with herders, as we have known. But Banker is more 166 than queer. Once, when we were with our flocks in the Esmeraldas, we observed, one evening, a fire at some distance. My brother went over to see who it was and to invite him to share our camp if he were friendly. He came upon the man, Banker, crouched over his fire and talking to himself. He seemed to be listening to something, and he muttered strange words which my brother could not understand. Yet my brother understood one phrase which the man repeated many times. It was, as he told me, something like ‘I will find it. I will find it. I will find the gold.’ But he also spoke of everybody dying, and my brother was uneasy, seeing his rifle lying close at hand. He endeavored to move away, but made some noise and the man heard him. He sprang to his feet with a cry of fear and shot with his rifle in the direction of my brother. Fortunately he did not hit him and my brother fled away. In the morning we found that Banker had departed in great haste during the night as though he feared some attack.”