Rimrock Jones Part 1

Rimrock Jones.

by Dane Coolidge.

CHAPTER I.

THE MAN WITH A GUN

The peace of midday lay upon Gunsight, broken only by the distant _chang, chang_ of bells as a ten-mule ore-team came toiling in from the mines. In the cool depths of the umbrella tree in front of the Company's office a Mexican ground-dove crooned endlessly his ancient song of love, but Gunsight took no notice. Its thoughts were not of love but of money.

The dusty team of mules pa.s.sed down the street, dragging their double-trees reluctantly, and took their cursing meekly as they made the turn at the tracks. A switch engine b.u.mped along the sidings, snaking ore-cars down to the bins and bunting them up to the chutes, but except for its bangings and clamor the town was still. An aged Mexican, armed with a long bunch of willow brush, swept idly at the sprinkled street and Old Ha.s.sayamp Hicks, the proprietor of the Alamo Saloon, leaned back in his rawhide chair and watched him with good-natured contempt.

The town was dead, after a manner of speaking, and yet it was not dead.

In the Gunsight Hotel where the officials of the Company left their women-folks to idle and fret and gossip, there was a restless flash of white from the upper veranda; and in the office below Andrew McBain, the aggressive President of the Gunsight Mining and Developing Company, paced nervously to and fro as he dictated letters to a typist. He paused, and as the clacking stopped a woman who had been reading a novel on the veranda rose up noiselessly and listened over the railing.

The new typist was really quite deaf--one could hear every word that was said. She was pretty, too,--and--well, she dressed too well, for one thing.

But McBain was not making love to his typist. He had stopped with a word on his lips and stood gazing out the window. The new typist had learned to read faces and she followed his glance with a start. Who was this man that Andrew McBain was afraid of? He came riding in from the desert, a young man, burly and masterful, mounted on a buckskin horse and with a pistol slung low on his leg. McBain turned white, his stern lips drew tighter and he stood where he had stopped in his stride like a wolf that has seen a fierce dog; then suddenly he swung forward again and his voice rang out harsh and defiant. The new typist took the words down at haphazard, for her thoughts were not on her work.

She was thinking of the man with a gun. He had gone by without a glance, and yet McBain was afraid of him.

A couple of card players came out of the Alamo and stopped to talk with Ha.s.sayamp.

"Well, bless my soul," exclaimed the watchful Ha.s.sayamp as he suddenly brought his chair down with a b.u.mp, "if hyer don't come that locoed scoundrel, Rimrock! Say, that boy's crazy, don't you know he is--jest look at that big sack of rocks!"

He rose up heavily and stepped out into the street, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun.

"h.e.l.lo thar, Rimmy!" he rumbled bluffly as the horseman waved his hand, "whar you been so long, and nothin' heard of you? There's been a woman hyer, enquirin' for you, most every day for a month now!"

"'S that so?" responded Rimrock guardedly. "Well, say, boys, I've struck it rich!"

He leaned back to untie a sack of ore, but Old Ha.s.sayamp was not to be deterred.

"Yes sir," he went on opening up his eyes triumphantly, "a widdy woman--says you owe her two-bits for some bread!"

He laughed uproariously at this pointed jest and clambered back to the plank sidewalk where he sat down convulsed in his chair.

"Aw, you make me tired!" said Rimrock shortly. "You know I don't owe no woman."

"You owe every one else, though," came back Ha.s.sayamp with a Texas yupe; "I got you there, boy. You sh.o.r.e cain't git around that!"

"Huh!" grunted Rimrock as he swung lightly to the ground. "Two bits, maybe! Four bits! A couple of dollars! What's that to talk about when a man is out after millions? Is my credit good for the drinks?

Well, come on in then, boys; and I'll show you something good!"

He led the way through the swinging doors and Ha.s.sayamp followed ponderously. The card players followed also and several cowboys, appearing as if by miracle, lined up along with the rest. Old Ha.s.sayamp looked them over grimly, breathed hard and spread out the gla.s.ses.

"Well, all right, Rim," he observed, "between friends--but don't bid in the whole town."

"When I drink, my friends drink," answered Rimrock and tossed off his first drink in a month. "Now!" he went on, fetching out his sack, "I'll show you something good!"

He poured out a pile of blue-gray sand and stood away from it admiringly.

Old Ha.s.sayamp drew out his gla.s.ses and balanced them on his nose, then he gazed at the pile of sand.

"Well," he said, "what is it, anyway?"

"It's copper, by grab, mighty nigh ten per cent copper, and you can scoop it up with a shovel. There's worlds of it, Ha.s.sayamp, a whole doggoned mountain! That's the trouble, there's almost too much! I can't handle it, man, it'll take millions to do it; but believe me, the millions are there. All I need is a stake now, just a couple of thousand dollars----"

"Huh!" grunted Ha.s.sayamp looking up over his gla.s.ses, "you don't reckon I've got that much, do you, to sink in a pile of _sand_?"

"If not you, then somebody else," replied Rimrock confidently. "Some feller that's out looking for sand. I heard about a sport over in London that tried on a bet to sell five-pound notes for a s.h.i.+lling.

That's like me offering to sell you twenty-five dollars for the English equivalent of two bits. And d'ye think he could get anyone to take 'em? He stood up on a soap box and waved those notes in the air, but d'ye think he could get anybody to buy?"

He paused with a cynical smile and looked Ha.s.sayamp in the eye.

"Well--no," conceded Ha.s.sayamp weakly.

"You bet your life he could!" snapped back Rimrock. "A guy came along that knowed. He took one look at those five-pound notes and handed up fifty cents."

"'I'll take two of 'em,' he says; and walks off with fifty dollars!"

Rimrock scooped up his despised sand and poured it back into the bag, after which he turned on his heel. As the doors swung to behind him Old Ha.s.sayamp looked at his customers and shook his head impressively.

From the street outside Rimrock could be heard telling a Mexican in Spanish to take his horse to the corrals. He was master of Gunsight yet, though all his money had vanished and his credit would buy nothing but the drinks.

"Well, what d'ye know about that?" observed Ha.s.sayamp meditatively.

"By George, sometimes I almost think that boy is right!"

He cleared his throat and hobbled towards the door and the crowd took the hint to disperse.

On the edge of the shady sidewalk Rimrock Jones, the follower after big dreams, sat silent, balancing the sack of ore in a bronzed and rock-scarred hand. He was a powerful man, with the broad, square-set shoulders that come from much swinging of a double jack or cranking at a windla.s.s. The curling beard of youth had covered his hard-bitten face and his head was unconsciously thrust forward, as if he still glimpsed his vision and was eager to follow it further. The crowd settled down and gazed at him curiously, for they knew he had a story to tell, and at last the great Rimrock sighed and looked at his work-worn hands.

"Hard going," he said, glancing up at Ha.s.sayamp. "I've got a ten-foot hole to sink on twenty different claims, no powder, and nothing but Mexicans for help. But I sure turned up some good ore--she gets richer the deeper you go."

"Any gold?" enquired Ha.s.sayamp hopefully.

"Yes, but pocketty. I leave all that chloriding to the Mexicans while I do my discovery work. They've got some picked rock on the dump."

"Why don't you quit that dead work and do a little chloriding yourself?

Pound out a little gold--that's the way to get a stake!"

Old Ha.s.sayamp spat the words out impatiently, but Rimrock seemed hardly to hear.

"Nope," he said, "no pocket-mining for me. There's copper there, millions of tons of it. I'll make my winning yet."

"Huh!" grunted Ha.s.sayamp, and Rimrock came out of his trance.

"You don't think so, hey?" he challenged and then his face softened to a slow, reminiscent smile.

"Say, Ha.s.sayamp," he said, "did you ever hear about that prospector that found a thousand pounds of gold in one chunk? He was lost on the desert, plumb out of water and forty miles from nowhere. He couldn't take the chunk along with him and if he left it there the sand would cover it up. Now what was that poor feller to do?"

"Well, what did he do?" enquired Ha.s.sayamp cautiously.