The Strange Case of Cavendish Page 7
CHAPTER VII: MISS DONOVAN ARRIVES
When the long overland train paused a moment before the ancient box carthat served as the depot for the town of Haskell, nestled in the gulchhalf a mile away, it deposited Miss Stella Donovan almost in the armsof Carson, the station-agent, and he, wary of the wiles of women andthe ethics of society, promptly turned her over to Jim Westcott, whohad come down to inquire if the station-agent held a telegram forhim--a telegram that he expected from the East.
"She oughtn't to hike to the Timmons House alone, Jim," Carson said."This yere is pay-day up at the big mines, an' the boys are havin' ahell of a time. That's them yellin' down yonder, and they're mightylikely to mix up with the Bar X gang before mornin', bein' how theliquor is runnin' like blood in the streets o' Lundun, and there's halfa mile between 'em."
In view of these disclosures, Miss Donovan welcomed the courteousacquiescence of Westcott, whom she judged to be a man of thirty-one,with force and character--these written in the lines of his big bodyand his square, kind face.
"I'm Miss Stella Donovan of New York," she said directly.
"And I," he returned, with hat off in the deepening gloom, "am JimWestcott, who plugs away at a mining claim over yonder."
"There!" laughed the girl frankly. "We're introduced. And I supposewe can start for the Timmons House."
As her words trailed off there came again the sound of yelling, sharpcries, and revolver shots from the gulch below where lights twinkledfaintly.
Laughing warmly, Westcott picked up her valise, threw a "So-long" toCarson, and with Miss Donovan close behind him, began making for thedistant lights of the Timmons House. As they followed the road, whichparalleled a whispering stream, the girl began to draw him outskilfully, and was amazed to find that for all of his rough appearancehe was excellently educated and a gentleman of taste. Finally thereason came out.
"I'm a college man," he explained proudly. "So was my partner--sameclass. But one can't always remain in the admirable East, and threeyears ago he and I came here prospecting. Actually struck somepay-dirt in the hills yonder, too, but it sort of petered out on us."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Miss Donovan's condolence was genuine.
"We lost the ore streak. It was broken in two by some upheaval ofnature. We were still trying to find it when my partner's father diedand he went East to claim the fortune that was left. I couldn't workalone, so I drifted away, and didn't come back until about four monthsago, when I restaked the claim and went to work again."
"You had persistence, Mr. Westcott," the girl laughed.
"It was rewarded. I struck the vein again--when my last dollar wasgone. That was a month ago, I wired my old partner for help, but----"He stopped, listening intently.
They were nearing a small bridge over Bear Creek, the sounds ofHaskell's revellers growing nearer and louder. Suddenly they heard anoath and a shot, and the next moment a wild rider, lashing a foaminghorse with a stinging quirt, was upon them. Westcott barely had timeto swing the girl to safety as the tornado flew past.
"The drunken fool!" he muttered quietly. "A puncher riding for camp.There will be more up ahead probably."
His little act of heroism drew the man strangely near to Miss Donovan,and as they hurried along in the silent night she felt that above allhe was dependable, as if, too, she had known him months, aye years,instead of a scant hour. And in this strange country she needed afriend.
"Now that I've laid bare my past," he was saying, "don't you think youmight tell me why you are here?"
The girl stiffened. To say that she was from the New York _Star_ wouldclose many avenues of information to her. No, the thing to do was toadopt some "stall" that would enable her to idle about as much as shechose. Then the mad horseman gave her the idea.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I forgot I hadn't mentioned it. I'm assigned by_Scribbler's Magazine_ to do an article on 'The Old West, Is It ReallyGone?' and, Mr. Westcott, I think I have a lovely start."
A few moments later she thanked Providence for her precaution, for hercompanion resumed the story of his mining claim.
"It's mighty funny I haven't heard from that partner. It isn't likehim not to answer my wire. That's why I've waited every night at thedepot. No, it's not like 'Pep,' even if he does take his leisure atthe College Club."
Miss Donovan's spine tingled at the mention of the name: "Pep," shemurmured, trying to be calm. "What was his other name?"
"Cavendish," Westcott replied. "Frederick Cavendish."
A gasp almost escaped the girl's lips. Here, within an hour, she hadlinked the many Eastern dues of the Cavendish affair with one in theWest. Was ever a girl so lucky? And immediately her brain began towork furiously as she walked along.
A sudden turn about the base of a large cliff brought them to Haskell,a single street running up the broadening valley, lined mostly withshacks, although a few more pretentious buildings were scattered hereand there, while an occasional tent flapped its discoloured canvas inthe night wind. There were no street lamps, and only a short stretchof wooden sidewalk, but lights blazed in various windows, sheddingillumination without, and revealing an animated scene.
They went forward, Westcott, in spite of his confident words, watchfuland silent, the valise in one hand, the other grasping her arm. Thenarrow stretch of sidewalk was jammed with men, surging in and outthrough the open door of a saloon, and the two held to the middle ofthe road, which was lined with horses tied to long poles. Men reeledout into the street, and occasionally the sharp crack of somefrolicsome revolver punctuated the hoarse shouts and bursts of drunkenlaughter. No other woman was visible, yet, apparently, no particularattention was paid to their progress. But the stream of men thickenedperceptibly, until Westcott was obliged to shoulder them asidegood-humouredly in order to open a passage. The girl, glancing inthrough the open doors, saw crowded bar-rooms, and eager groups aboutgambling tables. One place dazzlingly lighted was evidently adance-hall, but so densely jammed with humanity she could notdistinguish the dancers. A blare of music, however, proved thepresence of a band within. She felt the increasing pressure of herescort's hand.
"Can we get through?"
"Sure; some crowd, though. 'Tisn't often as bad as this; miners andpunchers all paid off at once." He released her arm, and suddenlygripped the shoulder of a man passing. He was the town marshal.
"Say, Dan, I reckon this is your busy night, but I wish you'd help merun this lady through as far as Timmons; this bunch of long-hornsappear to be milling, and we're plum stalled."
The man turned and stared at them. Short, stockily built, appearing atfirst view almost grotesque under the broad brim of his hat, Stella,recognising the marshal, was conscious only of a clean-shaven face, asquare jaw, and a pair of stern blue eyes.
"Oh, is that you, Jim?" he asked briefly. "Lord, I don't see why a bigboob like you should need a guardian. The lady? Pardon me, madam,"and he touched his hat. "Stand back there, you fellows. Come on,folks!"
The little marshal knew his business, and it was also evident that thecrowd knew the little marshal. Drunk and quarrelsome as many of themwere, they made way--the more obstreperous sullenly, but the majorityin a spirit of rough good humour. The time had not come for waragainst authority, and even the most reckless were fully aware thatthere was a law-and-order party in Haskell, ready and willing to backtheir officer to the limit. Few were drunk enough as yet to openlydefy his authority and face the result, as most of them had previouslyseen him in action. To the girl it was all terrifying enough--therough, hairy faces, the muttered threats, the occasional oath, thejostling figures--but the two men, one on each side of her, acceptedthe situation coolly enough, neither touching the revolver at his belt,but, sternly thrusting aside those in their way, they pressed straightthrough the surging mass in the man-crowded lobby of the disreputablehotel.
The building itself was a barnlike structure, unpainted, but with arude, unfinished veranda in front. One end contained a saloon, c
rowdedwith patrons, but the office, revealed in the glare of a smoky lamp,disclosed a few occupants, a group of men about a card-table.
At the desk, wide-eyed with excitement, Miss Donovan took aservice-worn pen proffered by landlord Pete Timmons, whose greywhiskers were as unkempt as his hotel, and registered her name.
"A telegram came to-day for you, ma'am," Peter said in a cracked voice,and tossed it over.
Miss Donovan tore it open. It was from Farriss. It read:
If any clues, advise immediately. Willis digging hard. Letter ofinstruction follows.
FARRISS.
The girl folded the message, thrust it in her jacket-pocket, thenturning to the marshal and Westcott, gave each a firm hand.
"You've both been more than kind," she said gratefully.
"Hell, ma'am," Dan deprecated, "that warn't nothin'!" And he hurriedinto the street as loud cries sounded outside.
"Good night, Miss Donovan," Westcott said simply. "If you are everfrightened or in need of a friend, call on me. I'll be in town twodays yet, and after that Pete here can get word to me." Then, with anadmiring, honest gaze, he searched her eyes a moment before he turnedand strolled toward the rude cigar-case.
"All right, now, ma'am?" Pete Timmons said, picking, up her valise.The girl nodded, and together they went up the rude stairs to her roomwhere Timmons paused at the door.
"Well, I'm glad you're here," he said, moving away. "We've beenwaitin' for you to show. I may be wrong, ma'am, but I'd bet my beltthat you're the lady that's been expected by Ned Beaton."
"You're mistaken," she replied shortly.
As she heard him clatter down the stairs, Miss Stella Donovan of theNew York _Star_ knew that her visit would not be in vain.