CHAPTER VII--THE FIRST TRICK
The high-springed stagecoach lurched drunkenly over the trail that woundthrough a valley Betty thought gnomes might have hewn out when the worldwas young. Barren, riven rock, gaunt, stunted trees, painted cliffshazed by distance, all added to a prospect that fell far short in theEastern girl's opinion of being picturesque.
Rather, it was just what her brother had termed this Westerncountry--raw. Betty did not like any rude thing. She shrank instinctivelyfrom anything crude and unfinished.
The three--herself, her brother, and Joe Hurley--occupied the seat on theroof of the plunging coach just behind the driver. "Lizard Dan" was anuncouth individual both in speech and appearance. He was bewhiskered,overalled, wore broken boots and an enormous slouched hat, and his handswere so grimy that Betty shuddered at them, although they so skillfullyhandled the reins over the backs of six frisky driving-mules.
Lizard Dan, Hurley told the Easterners, had gained his nickname when hewas a pocket-hunter in a now far-distant day. He had been lost in thedesert at one time and swore when he came out that he had existed byeating _Crotaphytus Wislizeni_ roasted over a fire of dry cacti--thesucculence of which saurian is much doubted by the Western white man,although it is a small brother of the South American iguana, thereconsidered a delicacy.
However, Dan acquired a nickname and such a fear of the desert therebythat he became the one known specimen of the completely cured desertrat. He never went prospecting again, but instead drove the stagebetween Crescent City and Canyon Pass.
"The boys expecting us at the Pass to-day, Dan?" Joe Hurley had askedearly in the journey.
"Youbetcha!"
"Got your gun loaded?"
Dan kicked the heavy double-barreled shotgun at his feet and repliedagain:
"Youbetcha!"
"Do--do wild animals infest the road?" Betty had asked stammeringly.
"Not much," said Hurley. "But Dan carries a heap of registered mail inwhich wild men, rather than wild animals, might be interested."
"Youbetcha!" agreed Dan.
Hurley glanced sideways at Betty's face, caught its expression, andexploded into laughter.
"You've come to 'Youbetcha Land,' Miss Betty," he said, when he couldspeak again.
"He is a character," chuckled Hunt on her other side.
The suggestion of highwaymen stuck in the girl's mind. She looked fromLizard Dan's weapon to the ivory butt of the heavy revolver pouched atJoe Hurley's waist. These weapons could not be worn exactly for show--anexhibition of the vanity of rather uncouth minds. It fretted her thoughwithout frightening her, this phase of Western life. It was not thepossibility of gun-fights and brawls and the offices of Judge Lynch thatmade Betty Hunt shrink from contact with this country and its people.
The stagecoach mounted out of the valley--which might, Hunt said, havebeen fittingly described by Ezekiel--and followed a winding trail throughthe minor range of hills that divided Crescent City and its purlieusfrom the Canyon Pass country. The coach pitched and rocked as though itwas a sea-going hack.
In time they crossed the small divide and came down the watershed intothe valley of the East Fork.
Borne to their ears on the breeze at last, through the sound of therumbling coach-wheels and the rattling trace-chains, was another noise.A throbbing rhythm of sound with the dull swish of intermittent streamsof water.
"The hydraulic pumps at the Eureka Washings," explained Hurley. "We'llbe in sight of them--and of Canyon Pass--before very long."
The stagecoach lurched around a corner, and the raw, red bench of theriverbank came into view. Steam pumps were noisily at work and men werebusy at the sluices into which the gold-bearing earth and gravel werewashed down from the high bank.
Three great, brass-nozzled hydraulic "guns" were at work--each machinestraddled by a man in oil-skins and hip boots, who manipulated the heavystream of water that ate into the bank and crumbled it in sections.
At the moment of their sighting the hydraulic washings across the river,there was raised a wild, concerted shout from a point ahead. Out of ahidden cove galloped a cavalcade of a dozen or more mounted men, whoswept up the road to meet the coach.
For an instant Betty thought of the shotgun at Dan's feet and ofhighwaymen. These coming riders waved guns and yelled like wild Indians.But she saw a broad grin on Joe Hurley's face.
"Here come some of the Great Hope boys," he explained. "Their idea of'welcome to our city' may be a little noisy, but they mean you well,Hunt."
They came "a-shootin'," and Lizard Dan threw the long lash of his whipover the backs of his six mules to force them through the cavalcade onthe gallop.
Firing their guns and yelling, the riders on their wiry poniessurrounding the coach as its escort, pounded down to the ford. Theirhullabaloo announced far in advance the approach of the coach to CanyonPass.
In all its ugliness the mining camp was revealed. The gaze of theEasterners was focused on its unpainted shacks and rutted streets. Theysaw men, women, children, and a multitude of dogs running from allpoints toward the main thoroughfare of the town.
It was like a picture--not like anything real. Betty's dazed mind couldnot accept this nightmare of a place as actually being the town to whichfate--and her brother's obstinacy--had brought them. Given an opportunityright then, the girl would have failed her brother! She was in a mood todesert him and return East as fast as she could travel.
Joe Hurley grinned at her. She had begun almost to hate those twinklingbrown eyes of his with the golden sparks in them. He seemed to know justwhat her feelings were and to enjoy her horror of the crudity whichassailed her on every hand. To her mind, Hurley was worse than hisassociates, for he had enjoyed the advantages of some culture.
The mules dashed into the shallows. Spray flew as high as the roof ofthe coach. The mules settled into a heavier pace as they dragged thevehicle up the farther bank and into the foot of Main Street.
The crowd--a couple of hundred people of all ages--had gathered before theWild Rose Hotel. This stood opposite the bank and farther along thestreet than the Three Star Grocery and Boss Tolley's Grub Stake. Themules picked up their heels again under the cracking of Lizard Dan'swhiplash, and cantered up to the chief hostelry of Canyon Pass. Theyelling crew of horsemen--a bizarre committee of welcome indeed--rodeahead, punctuating their vociferous clamor by an occasional pistol-shot.
Betty caught sight of her brother's face. It was as broadly smiling aswas that of Joe Hurley! Actually Ford was enjoying this awfulexperience.
The moment Dan drew the mules to a halt, Hurley was half way to theground and turned on the step to help Betty down. She glanced timidly atHunt again. He was preparing to descend on the other side of the coach,leaving her entirely to Hurley's care.
Then occurred that incident which would ever be engraved upon Betty'smemory, and which marked indeed the coming of the Reverend Willett FordHunt to Canyon Pass on the archives of the town's history in lettersthat never would be effaced.
As Hunt started to descend from the roof of the coach there sounded asingle pistol-shot and the hat he wore--a low-crowned affair, the singlemark of the cleric in his dress--sailed into the air with a ragged holethrough brim and crown.
As the hat flew upward a fusillade of five more shots followed thefirst, and the hat was torn to rags as it sailed over the roof of thecoach. The crowd roared--some in anger, but most in derision. The manstanding by the door of the Grub Stake reloaded his gun before puttingit away, grinning broadly.
Hunt was startled; but his own smile did not fade. What was it Joe hadimpressed so emphatically upon his mind?
"It's the first impression that counts with Canyon Pass folks. Give 'emthe chance, and they'll laugh you out of town. And remember, they arebound to judge you, Hunt, by their own standards."
The young minister felt that the occasion was momentous. His usefulnesshere in Canyon Pass might depend upon his action or comment in thisemergency.
His nerves were perfectly steady.
How was his _nerve_? He knew the manwho had shot the hat from his head was such a good shot that he had beenin no danger at all.
But Hunt felt that something more was expected of him than the mereignoring of a rude and offensive act. He started across the road towardthe gunman. Those who stood in the way opened a lane for him with somealacrity. The smiles upon the faces of those who moved stiffened.Something extraordinary, something they had not at all expected, wasabout to happen.
Hicks, slouching against the front of the Grub Stake, came to suddenattention. His fingers crooked, creeping toward the butt of his gunagain. Every atom of the ruffian's courage--such as it was--lay in thatweapon. Without it--and its leaden death--he was a sheep for bravery!
Smiling still Hunt reached him. The parson's steady gaze held that ofHicks as the human eye is said to hypnotize the gaze of all wild beasts.Hicks, however, was not wild. Not now. Not so you could notice it!
"Brother," Hunt said cheerfully, "you've spoiled my hat. It's the onlyhat I've got with me until my trunks come in by freight. You've had yourfun, and it's only fair you should pay for it."
The expression of Hicks' face sunk into a sneer. He thought thewhite-livered parson was trying to get money from him for the hat. Hemust indeed be a "softie."
Then Hunt's hands moved suddenly, swiftly. In a flash he had snatchedthe broad-brimmed hat from Hicks' head and placed it on his own,
"Turn about is fair play, don't you think?" said the parson, and withoutwaiting for a reply he turned on his heel and went back across thestreet!
The silence that had fallen on the crowd had been of that tense,strained quality that portended tragedy. Had Hunt showed offense at thetrick played upon him and struck Hicks, the latter would have used hisgun without mercy. And scarcely could a jury have been impaneled inCanyon Pass that would have convicted the ruffian.
But of a sudden, a roar of laughter rose from the crowd. They rockedwith it, beating their knees, holding their sides, laughing withwide-open mouths and streaming eyes. Nor was the comical appearance ofHicks' dilapidated hat crowning the parson's otherwise impeccable outfitall that spurred Canyon Pass to such wild cachinnation.
The strident laughter was aimed at the chagrined gunman. Hicks knew it.The broad back of the parson offered a sure target; but he knew betterthan to draw his gun a second time. Instead he turned away, hatless, andsought sanctuary in the Grub Stake.
Hunt had taken the first trick in this game he had "set into." AndCanyon Pass to a man admired a shrewd gambler.