The Twins of Suffering Creek

“Say, have you seen him?” he demanded of anybody. “I’m talkin’ o’ Zip,” he added, for Sandy’s enlightenment. “He found James. Located his ranch, an’–an’ nigh got hammered to death for his pains. Gee!”

“We see him,” said Minky, after an awed pause. “But he never said a word. He jest set Bill’s mare back in the barn, an’ bo’t bacon, and hit off to hum.”

“I didn’t see him,” Sandy admitted. “How was he?”

“Battered nigh to death, I said,” cried Sunny, with startling violence. “His eyes are blackened, an’ his pore mean face is cut about, an’ bruised ter’ble. His clothes is torn nigh to rags, an’–”

“Was it the James outfit did it?” inquired Minky incredulously.

“They did that surely,” cried Sunny vehemently. “You ain’t seen Bill, have you? He’s that mad you can’t git a word out o’ him. I tell you right here somethin’s goin’ to happen. Somethin’s got to happen,” he added, with a fresh burst of rage. “That gang needs cleanin’ out. They need shootin’ up like vermin, an’–”

“You’re goin’ to do it?” inquired Sandy sarcastically.

Sunny turned on him in a flash.

“I’ll take my share in it,” he cried, “an’ it’ll need to be a big share to satisfy me,” he added, with such evident sincerity and fiery determination that his companions stared at him in wonder.

“Guess Sunny’s had his rest broke,” observed Toby, with a grin.

“I have that sure. An’–an’ it makes me mad to git busy,” the loafer declared. “Have you seen that pore feller with his face all mussed? Gee! Say, Zip wouldn’t hurt a louse; he’s that gentle-natured I’d say if ther’ was only a baulky mule between him an’ starvation he’d hate to live. He ain’t no more savvee than a fool cat motherin’ a china dog, but he’s got the grit o’ ten men. He’s hunted out James with no more thought than he’d use firin’ a cracker on the 4th o’ July. He goes after him to claim his right, as calm an’ foolish as a sheep in a butcherin’ yard. An’ I’d say right here ther’ ain’t one of us in this store would have had the grit chasin’ for his wife wher’ Zip’s bin chasin’–”

“Not for a wife, sure,” interjected Sandy.

Toby smothered a laugh, but became serious under Sunny’s contemptuous eye.

“That’s like you, Sandy,” he cried. “It’s sure like you. But I tell you Zip’s a man, an’ a great big man to the marrer of his small backbone. His luck’s rotten. Rotten every ways. He’s stuck on his wife, an’ she’s gone off with a tough like James. He works so he comes nigh shamin’ even me, who hates work, on a claim that couldn’t show the color o’ gold on it, if ther’ wa’an’t nothin’ to the earth but gold. He’s jest got two notions in his silly head. It’s his kids an’ his wife. Mackinaw! It makes me sick. It does sure. Here’s us fellers without a care to our souls, while that pore sucker’s jest strugglin’ an’ strugglin’ an’ everythin’s wrong with him–wrong as–oh, hell!”

For once Sandy forgot his malicious jibe at the loafer’s expense. And Toby, too, forgot his pleasantry. Sunny’s outburst of feeling had struck home, and each man stood staring thoughtfully at the mental picture he had conjured for them. Each admitted to himself in his own way the pity the other’s words had stirred, but none of them had anything to add at the moment.

Sunny glanced from one to the other. His look was half questioning and wholly angry. He glanced across at the window and thrust his hands in his ragged trousers pockets.

And presently as he began to tap the floor with his foot a fresh rush of fiery anger was mounting to his head. He opened his lips as though about to continue his tirade, but apparently changed his mind. And, instead, he drew a dollar bill from his pocket, and flung it on the counter.

“Three more drinks,” he demanded roughly.

Minky in unfeigned surprise produced the glasses. Sandy leant over, and, with face thrust forward, inspected the bill. Toby contented himself with a low whistle of astonishment.

Sunny glared at them contemptuously.

“Yes,” he said roughly, “I’ve earned it. I’ve worked for it, do you understand? Wild Bill set me to look after Zip’s kids, an’ he’s paid me for it. But–but that money burns–burns like hell, an’ I want to be quit of it. Oh, I ain’t bug on no sort o’ charity racket, I’m jest about as soft as my back teeth. But I’m mad–mad to git busy doin’ anythin’ so we ken git Zip level with that low-down skunk, James. An’ if ther’s fi’ cents’ worth o’ grit in you, Mister Sandy Joyce, an’ an atom o’ savvee in your fool brain, Toby, you’ll take a hand in the game.”

Minky looked on in silent approval. Anything directed against James was bound to meet with his approval just now. But Sandy cleared his throat, and lounged with his back against the counter.

“An’ wot, I’d ast, is goin’ to hurt this tough?” he inquired, with a dash of his usual sarcasm.

Sunny flew at his drink and gulped it down.

“How do I know?” he cried scornfully.

“Jest so.”

Toby grinned.

“You’re a bright one, Sunny. You’re so bright, you dazzle my eyes,” he cried.

But Sunny was absorbed in a thought that was hazily hovering in the back of his brain, and let the insult pass.

“How ken I tell jest wot we’re goin’ to do,” he cried. “Wot we want to do is to kind o’ help that pore crittur Zip out first. Ther’ he is wi’ two kids to see to, which is sure more than one man’s work, an’ at the same time he’s got to dig up that mudbank claim of his. He don’t see the thing’s impossible, ’cos he’s that big in mind he can’t see small things like that. But I ain’t big that aways, an’ I ken see. If he goes on diggin’ wot’s his kids goin’ to do, an’ if he don’t dig wot’s they goin’ to do anyways. We’ll hev to form a committee–”

“Sort o’ trust,” grinned Toby.

But Sunny passed over his levity and seized upon his suggestion.

“I ’lows your fool head’s tho’t somethin’ wiser than it guessed,” he said. “That’s just wot we need. Ther’ should be a trust to see after him. An’ after it’s got his kids fixed right–”

Sunny broke off as the tall figure of Wild Bill threw its shadow across the window of the store. The next moment the man himself entered the room.

He nodded silently, and was about to fling himself into one of the chairs, when Toby, in jocular anticipation, threw Sunny’s proposition at him.

“Say, Sunny’s woke up an’ bin thinkin’,” he cried. “I allow his brain is shockin’ wonderful. Guess he’s got sick o’ restin’ an’ reckons he got a notion for makin’ a trust lay-out.”

“The Zip Trust,” added Sandy, with a laugh, in which Toby joined heartily.

“Yes. He guesses Zip needs lookin’ after,” declared the remittance man in the midst of his mirth, glancing round for appreciation of the joke.

But the encouragement he received fell short of his expectations, and his laugh died out quite abruptly. There was no responsive smile on Minky’s face. Sunny was glowering sulkily; while Bill’s fierce brows were drawn together in an angry frown, and his gimlet eyes seemed to bore their way into the speaker’s face.

“Wal?” he demanded coldly.

“Wal, I think he’s–”

But Bill cut him short in his coldest manner.

“Do you?” he observed icily. “Wal, I’d say you best think ag’in. An’ when you done thinkin’ jest start right over ag’in. An’ mebbe some day you’ll get wise–if you don’t get took meanwhiles.”

Bill flung himself into the chair and crossed his long legs.

“Sunny’s on the right lay,” he went on. “Ther’ ain’t many men on Sufferin’ Creek, but Zip’s one of ’em. Say, Toby, would you ride out to James’ outfit to call him all you think of the feller whose stole your wife?”

“Not by a sight,” replied Toby seriously.

“Wal, Zip did. He’s big,” went on Bill in cold, harsh tones. Then he paused in thought. But he went on almost immediately. “We got to help him. I’m sure with Sunny.” He turned on the loafer with a wintry smile. “You best organize right away, an’–count me in.”

Sunny’s eyes glowed with triumph. He had feared the man’s ridicule. He had expected to see his lean shoulders go up in silent contempt. And then, he knew, would have followed a storm of sarcasm and “jollying” from Sandy and the others. With quick wit he seized his opportunity, bent on using Bill’s influence to its utmost. He turned on Minky with a well calculated abruptness.

“You’ll help this thing out–too?” he challenged him.

And he got his answer on the instant–

“I sure will–to any extent.”

Sandy and Toby looked at the storekeeper in some doubt. Bill was watching them with a curious intentness. And before Sunny could challenge the two scoffers, his harsh voice filled the room again.

“I don’t know we’ll need any more,” he said, abruptly turning his gaze upon the open window, “otherwise we’d likely hev ast you two fellers. Y’see, we’ll need folks as ken do things–”

“Wot sort o’ things?” demanded Sandy, with a sudden interest.

“Wal, that ain’t easy to say right now, but–”

“I ain’t much seein’ to kids,” cried Sandy, “but I ken do most anythin’ else.”

A flicker of a smile crept into Bill’s averted eyes, while Sunny grinned broadly to see the way the man was now literally falling over himself to follow the leadership of Wild Bill.

“Wal, it ain’t no use in saying things yet, but if you’re dead set on joining this Zip Trust, I guess you can. But get this, what you’re called upon to do you’ll need to do good an’ hard, an’–without argument.”

Sandy nodded.

“I’m in,” he cried, as though a great privilege had been bestowed upon him.

And at once Toby became anxious.

“Guess you ain’t no use for me, Bill?” he hazarded, almost diffidently.

Bill turned his steely eyes on him in cold contemplation. Minky had joined in Sunny’s grin at the other men’s expense. Sandy, too, now that he was accepted as an active member of the trust, was indulging in a superior smile.

“I don’t allow I have,” Bill said slowly. “Y’see, you ain’t much else than a ‘remittance’ man, an’ they ain’t no sort o’ trash anyway.”

“But,” protested Toby, “I can’t help it if my folks hand me money?”

“Mebbe you can’t.” Bill was actually smiling. And this fact so far influenced the other members of the trust that an audible titter went round the room. Then the gambler suddenly sat forward, and the old fierce gleam shone once more in his cold eyes. “Say,” he cried suddenly. “If a feller got the ‘drop’ on you with six bar’ls of a gun well-loaded, an’–guessed you’d best squeal, wot ’ud you do?”

“Squeal,” responded the puzzled Toby, with alacrity.

“You ken join the Trust. You sure got more savvee than I tho’t.”

Bill sat back grinning, while a roar of laughter concluded the founding of the Zip Trust.

But like all ceremonials, the matter had to be prolonged and surrounded with the frills of officialdom. Sunny called it organization, and herein only copied people of greater degree and self-importance. He plunged into his task with whole-hearted enthusiasm, and, with every word he uttered, preened himself in the belief that he was rapidly ascending in the opinion of Wild Bill, the only man on Suffering Creek for whose opinion he cared a jot.

He explained to his comrades, with all the vanity of a man whose inspiration has met with public approval, that in forming such a combine as theirs, it would be necessary to allot certain work, which he called “departments,” to certain individuals. He assured his fellow-members that such was always done in “way-up concerns.” It saved confusion, and ensured the work being adequately performed.

“Sort o’ like a noo elected gover’ment,” suggested Sandy sapiently.

“Wal, I won’t say that,” said Sunny. “Them fellers traipse around wi’ portyfolios hangin’ to ’em. I don’t guess we need them things. It’s too hot doin’ stunts like that.”

“Portfolios?” questioned Toby artlessly. “Wot’s them for?”

“Oh, jest nuthin’ o’ consequence. Guess it’s to make folks guess they’re doin’ a heap o’ work. No, what we need is to set each man his work this aways. Now Bill here needs to be president sure. Y’see, we must hev a ‘pres.’ Most everything needs a ‘pres.’ He’s got to sit on top, so if any one o’ the members gits gay he ken hand ’em a daisy wot’ll send ’em squealin’ an’ huntin’ their holes like gophers. Wal, Bill needs to be our ‘pres.’ Then there’s the ‘general manager.’ He’s the feller wot sets around an’ blames most everybody fer everything anyway, an’ writes to the noospapers. He’s got to have savvee, an’ an elegant way o’ shiftin’ the responsibility o’ things on them as can’t git back at him. He’s got to be a bright lad–”

“That’s Sunny, sure,” exclaimed Toby. “He’s a dandy at gettin’ out o’ things an’ leaving others in. Say–”

“Here, half-a-tick,” cried Joyce, with sudden inspiration. “Who’s goin’ to be ‘fightin’ editor’?”

“Gee, what a brain!” cried Sunny derisively. “Say, we ain’t runnin’ a mornin’ noos sheet. This is a trust. Sandy, my boy, you need educatin’. A trust’s a corporation of folks wot is so crooked, they got to git together, an’ pool their cash, so’s to git enough dollars to kep ’em out o’ penitentiary. That’s how they start. Later on, if they kep clear o’ the penitentiary, they start in to fake the market till the Gover’ment butts in. Then they git gay, buy up a vote in Congress, an’ fake the laws so they’re fixed right fer themselves. After that some of them git religion, some of ’em give trick feeds to their friends, some of ’em start in to hang jewels on stage females. Some of ’em have been known to shoot theirselves or git divorced. It ain’t no sort o’ matter wot they do, pervided they’re civil to the noospaper folk. That’s a trust, Sandy, an’ I don’t say but what the feller as tho’t o’ that name must o’ bin a tarnation amusin’ feller.”

“Say, you orter bin in a cirkis,” sneered Sandy, as the loafer finished his disquisition.

“Wal, I’d say that’s better’n a museum,” retorted Sunny.

But Toby was impatient to hear how Sunny intended to dispose of him.

“Wher’ do I figger in this lay-out?” he demanded.

“You?” Sunny’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t guess we’ll need to give you hard work. You best be boss o’ the workin’ staff.”

“But ther’ ain’t no workin’ staff,” protested Toby.

“Jest so. That’s why you’ll be boss of it.” Then Sunny turned to Sandy.

“We’ll need your experience as a married man, tho’,” he said slyly. “So you best be head o’ the advisory board. You’ll need to kep us wise to the general principles of vittlin’ a family of three, when the woman’s missin’. Then we’ll need a treasurer.” Sunny turned to Minky, and his twinkling eyes asked the question.

“Sure,” said Minky promptly, “I’ll be treasurer. Seems to me I’ll be safer that ways.”

“Good,” cried Sunny, “that’s all fixed.” He turned to Bill. “Say, pres,” he went on, “I’d like to pass a vote o’ thanks fer the way you conducted this yer meetin’, an’ put it to the vote, that we accept the treasurer’s invitation to take wine. All in favor will–”

“Mine’s rye,” cried Sandy promptly.

“An’ mine,” added Toby.

“Rye for me,” nodded Sunny at Minky’s grinning face. “Bill–?”

But Bill shook his head.

“Too early for me,” he said, “you fellers can git all you need into you though. But see here, folks,” he went on, with a quietness of purpose that promptly reduced every eye to seriousness. “This ain’t no play game as Sunny may ha’ made you think. It’s a proposition that needs to go thro’, an’–I’m goin’ to see it thro’. Zip’s kids is our first trouble. They ain’t easy handlin’. They got to be bro’t up reg’lar, an’ their stummicks ain’t to be pizened with no wrong sort o’ vittles. Ther’s such a heap o’ things to kids o’ that age it makes me nigh sweat at the tho’t. Howsum, Zip’s down an’ out, an’ we got to see him right someways. As ‘pres’ of this lay-out, I tell you right here, every mother’s son of us had best git out an’ learn all we ken about fixin’ kids right. How to feed ’em, how to set their pretties on right, how to clean ’em, how to–well, jest how to raise ’em. If any o’ you got leddy friends I’d say git busy askin’ ’em. So–”

At that moment the sound of footsteps on the veranda came in through the window, and Bill looked round. The next instant he spoke more rapidly, and with greater authority.

“Git goin’,” he cried, “an’ we’ll meet after supper.”

There was no doubt of this man’s rule. Without a word the men filed out of the store, each one with his thoughts bent upon the possibilities of acquiring the knowledge necessary.

CHAPTER XI

STRANGERS IN SUFFERING CREEK

Bill watched the men depart. The stolid Minky, too, followed them with his eyes. But as they disappeared through the doorway he turned to the gambler, and, in surprise, discovered that he was reclining in a chair, stretched out in an attitude of repose, with his shrewd eyes tightly closed. He was about to speak when the swing-doors opened, and two strangers strolled in.

Minky greeted them, “Howdy?” and received an amiable response. The newcomers were ordinary enough to satisfy even the suspicious storekeeper. In fact, they looked like men from some city, who had possibly come to Suffering Creek with the purpose of ascertaining the possibilities of the camp as a place in which to try their fortunes. Both were clad in store clothes of fair quality, wearing hats of the black prairie type, and only the extreme tanning of their somewhat genial faces belied the city theory.

Minky noted all these things while he served them the drinks they called for, and, in the most approvedly casual manner, put the usual question to them.

“Wher’ you from?” he inquired, as though the matter were not of the least consequence.

He was told Spawn City without hesitation, and in response to his remark that they had “come quite a piece,” they equally amiably assured him that they had.

Then one of the men addressed his companion.

“Say, Joe,” he said, “mebbe this guy ken put us wise to things.”

And Joe nodded and turned to the storekeeper.

“Say, boss,” he began, “we’ve heerd tell this lay-out is a dead gut bonanza. There’s folks in Spawn City says ther’s gold enough here to drown the United States Treasury department. Guess we come along to gather some.” He grinned in an ingratiating manner.

Minky thought before answering.

“Ther’ sure is a heap o’ gold around. But it ain’t easy. I don’t guess you’d gather much in a shovel. You’ll get pay dirt that aways, but–”

“Ah! Needs cap’tal,” suggested Joe.

“That’s jest how we figgered,” put in the other quietly.

Minky nodded. Many things were traveling swiftly through his mind.

“Drove in?” he inquired.

“Sure,” replied Joe. “Unhooked down the trail a piece.”

Bill’s eyes opened and closed again. Then he shifted noisily in his chair. The men turned round and eyed him with interest. Then the man called Joe called back to the storekeeper.

“My name’s Joe Manton,” he said, by way of introduction. “An’ my friend’s called Sim Longley. Say,” he went on, with a backward jerk of the head, “mebbe your friend’ll take something?”

Minky glanced over at Wild Bill. The gambler drowsily opened his eyes and bestirred himself.

“I sure will,” he said, rearing his great length up, and moving across to the counter. “I’ll take Rye, mister, an’ thank you. This is Mr. Minky, gents. My name’s Bill.”

The introduction acknowledged, talk flowed freely. Wild Bill, in carefully toned down manner, engaged the strangers in polite talk, answering their questions about the gold prospects of the place, which were often pointed, in the most genial and even loquacious manner. He told them a great deal of the history of the place, warned them that Suffering Creek was not the sinecure the outside world had been told, endorsed Minky’s story that what Suffering Creek really needed was capital to reach the true wealth of the place. And, in the course of the talk, drink flowed freely.

Bill was always supplied with his drink from a different bottle to that out of which the strangers were served. As a matter of fact, he was probably the most temperate man on Suffering Creek, and, by an arrangement with Minky, so as not to spoil trade, drank from a bottle of colored water when the necessity for refreshment arose. But just now his manner suggested that he had drunk quite as much whisky as the strangers. His spirits rose with theirs, and his jocularity and levity matched theirs, step by step, as they went on talking.

The man Longley had spoken of the settlement as being “one-horsed,” and Billy promptly agreed.

“It sure is,” he cried. “We ain’t got nothing but this yer canteen, with ol’ Minky doin’ his best to pizen us. Still, we get along in a ways. Mebbe we could do wi’ a dancin’-hall–if we had females around. Then I’d say a bank would be an elegant addition to things. Y’see, we hev to ship our gold outside. Leastways, that’s wot we used to do, I’ve heard. Y’see, I ain’t in the minin’ business,” he added, by way of accounting for his lack of personal knowledge.

“Ah!” said Joe. “Maybe you’re ‘commercial’?”

Bill laughed so genially that the others joined in it.

“In a ways, mebbe I am. You see, I mostly sit around, an’ when anything promisin’ comes along, why, I ain’t above plankin’ a few dollars by way of–speculation.”

Joe grinned broadly.

“A few shares in a poker hand, eh?” he suggested shrewdly.

“You’re kind o’ quick, mister,” Bill laughed. “I’m stuck on ‘draw’ some.”

Then the talk drifted suddenly. It was Longley who presently harked back to the commercial side of Suffering Creek.

“You was sayin’ ther’ wasn’t no bank on Suffering Creek,” he said interestedly. “What do folks do with their dust now, then?”

A quick but almost imperceptible glance passed between Bill and the storekeeper. And Bill’s answer came at once.

“Wal, as I sed, we used to pass it out by stage. But–”

Longley caught him up just a shade too quickly.

“Yes–but?”

“Wal,” drawled Bill thoughtfully, “y’see, we ain’t shipped dust out for some time on account of a gang that’s settin’ around waitin’. You comin’ from Spawn City’ll likely have heard of this feller James an’ his gang. A most ter’ble tough is James. I’ll allow he’s got us mighty nigh wher’ he wants us–scairt to death. No, we ain’t sent out no gold stage lately, but we’re goin’ to right soon. We’ll hev to. We’ve ast for an escort o’ Gover’ment troops, but I guess Sufferin’ Creek ain’t on the map. The Gover’ment don’t guess they’ve any call to worry.”

“Then what you goin’ to do?” inquired Longley, profoundly interested.

“Can’t say. The stage’ll hev to take its chances.”

“An’ when–” began Longley. But his comrade cut him short.

“Say, I’ll allow the gold racket’s mighty int’restin’, but it makes me tired this weather. You was speakin’ ‘draw’–”

“Sure,” responded Bill amiably. “We’re four here, if you fancy a hand. Minky?”

The storekeeper nodded, and promptly produced cards and ‘chips.’ And in five minutes the game was in progress. Used as he was to the vagaries of his gambling friend, Minky was puzzled at the way he was discussing Suffering Creek with these strangers. His talk about James and the gold-stage was too rankly absurd for anything, and yet he knew that some subtle purpose must be underlying his talk. However, it was no time to question or contradict now, so he accepted the situation and his share in the game.

And here again astonishment awaited him. Bill lost steadily, if not heavily. He watched the men closely, but could discover none of the known tricks common to the game when sharps are at work. They not only seemed to be playing straight, but badly. They were not good poker players. Yet they got the hands and won. For himself, he kept fairly level. It was only Bill who lost.

And all through the game the gambler allowed himself to be drawn into talking of Suffering Creek by the interested Longley, until it would have been obvious to the veriest greenhorn that the stranger was pumping him.

The newcomers seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously, and the greatest good-will prevailed. Nor was it until nearly supper-time that Bill suddenly stood up and declared he had had enough. He was a loser to the extent of nearly a hundred dollars.

So the party broke up. And at Minky’s suggestion the men departed to put their horses in the barn, while they partook of supper under his roof. It was the moment they had gone that the storekeeper turned on his friend.

“Say, I ain’t got you, Bill. Wot’s your game?” he demanded, with some asperity.

But the gambler was quite undisturbed by his annoyance. He only chuckled.