Chapter VIII: Part 8

She turned her face aside again and we perceived that she would be alone. So we passed from the room very quietly and saw the sheriff at the end of the corridor beckoning us, and went toward him.

"She hes told you, I guess," said he, "that the case is off."

Apache shook his head.

"Pshaw!" said the sheriff. "What she want with you?"

"To hear how Mr. Pinkerton died."

"But she knew."

"Yes," said Apache Kid, "as a savage saw it."

The sheriff puckered his heavy mouth and raised his eyes.

"Sure!" said he. "That's what. Pretty coarse, I guess. You would kind o' put the limelight on the scene."

"Sir, sir!" said Apache Kid. "We have just come from her."

"I beg your pardon, gen'lemen," he said. "I understand what you mean; I know--women and music, and especially them songs about Mother, and the old farm, and such, jest makes me _feel_ too, at times. I understand, boys, and I don't mock you none. And that jest makes me think it might be sort of kind in you if you was goin' out and gettin' them cheerin' boys out there some ways off, lest she hears them cheerin' an' it kind o' jars on her."

"Then I am free?"

"Yap; that's what," said the sheriff. "She rode up here with that Indian trailer feller when the news spread. The colonel tells me that it was a fellow, Pious Pete, hetched the story out. It was two strangers to me came to inform me about the killing of Pinkerton--said they saw you do it from out a bush where they was camped, and would have gone for you but they had gone busted on cartridges and you was heeled heavy. They put up a good enough story about them bein' comin' back from a prospectin' trip, and had it all down fine. So I jest started right off."

"But how did you know what way to come for us?" asked Apache Kid.

"Oh, well, you see, I had been keepin' track of Canlan. I hed lost sight o' you, and when I heard you was in the hills away over there, and also knew how Canlan had gone out over Baker shoulder, I began to guess where The Lost Cabin lay. It was handier like for me to start trackin' Canlan than to go away down to Kettle with them fellows and into the mountains there, and try to get on to your trail where they said you had buried Mr. P."

Apache Kid nodded.

"So I left them two here to eat at the expense o' the territory till my return. It was the colonel got onto them fust--recognised 'em for old friends of a right celebrated danger to civilisation which his name was Farrell."

"Ah!" said Apache Kid.

"So I hear now, when I comes back, anyway," said the sheriff. "Then along comes Miss Pinkerton, and when they see her on the scene, well, why they reckon on feedin' off this yere territory no more. The colonel is some annoyed that they did n't wait on and try to hold up their story. I reckon they either had not figured on Miss P., or else had surmised she 'd not raise her voice ag'in' your decoratin' a rope. But I keep you from distractin' them boys out there and they starts cheerin' ag'in. After you 've kind o' distributed them come back and see me. I 'm kind o' stuck on you, Apache. I guess you 'll make a good enough citizen yet--maybe you might be in the running yet for sheriff o' Carson City within the next few years."

But a renewed outbreak of the cheering brought a frown to Apache Kid's face and sent him to the door speedily, with me at his heels.

The sheriff opened the door and out stepped Apache Kid. The first breath of a shout from the crowd there he stopped in the middle. What his face spoke I do not know, being behind him; but his right thumb pointed over his shoulder, his left hand was at his lips, I think,--and the cry stopped.

"Gentlemen," he said, and broke the cry that threatened again to rise with a raised hand; "the lady within"--he got to the core of his remark first--"has her own sorrow. We must think of her."

You could hear the gruff "That's what," and "That's no lie," and "That's talking," and see heads nodded to neighbour's heads in the crowd.

But the question was how to get away? Apache Kid stepped down to the street level and then, before we knew what was come to us we were clutched by willing hands and, shoulder high, headed a silent procession tramping in the dust out of ear-shot of the jail--that the woman within might not feel her sorrow more bitter and lonely hearing the cheers that were given to the men who had "wiped out the Farrell gang."

So much the populace knew had happened. That much had leaked out, and the least that was expected of Apache Kid was that he would get out on some hotel verandah and allow himself to be gazed upon and cheered and make himself for a night an excuse for "celebration" and perhaps, also, in the speech that he must needs make, give some slight outline of how Farrell _got it_--to use (as Apache Kid would say) the phraseology of the country.

*CHAPTER XXVI*

_*Apache Kid Makes a Speech*_

There was a good deal of the spirit of Coriolanus in Apache Kid, and he knew the worth of all this laudation.

When we at last found ourselves jostled up onto the balcony of that saloon which I spoke of once as one of the "toughest" houses in Baker City, that very saloon at the door of which I had beheld the sheriff of Baker City give an example of his "smartness," the throng was jostling in the street and crying out:

"What's the matter with Apache Kid?--He's all right!"

Both question and answer in this cry were voiced always in one, not one man crying out the question and another replying, and it made the cry seem very droll to me.

Apache Kid was thrust to the front and the crowd huzzahed again and shouted: "Speech!" And others cried out: "Tell us about Farrell's gang."

So Apache Kid stepped to the rail and raised his head, and, "Gentlemen," he began, "this is a great honour to me;" and they all cried out again.

"If it is not," said he, "it should be."

I think the majority took this for humour and they laughed and wagged their heads and looked up smiling, for more.

"When I think of how so shortly ago I merited your disapproval and now, instead of gaining that, am welcomed so heartily and effusively, I cannot but feel how deeply I am indebted to all the citizens--" he paused and I heard him laugh in his throat, "of our progressive and progressing city."

They gave vent to a bellow of pleasure and some cried out again: "Farrell! Farrell! Tell us about Farrell."

"I must appeal to the sense of propriety," he said, "for which our western country is famous. In the West we are all gentlemen."

There was a cry of: "That's what!"

"And a gentleman never forces anyone to take liquor when he does not want to, never forces anyone to disclose his history when he does not want to. The gentleman says to himself, in the first instance, 'there is all the more for myself.' In the second case he knows that his own past might scarcely bear scrutiny. Ah well! As we are all gentlemen here I know that with perfect reliance in you I can say that I had rather not speak about Farrell and his gang."

There was a slight murmur at this.

"There are men of the gang still in the territory. As you are now aware, it was they who came to you with a cock-and-bull story about me. In your desire to further law and order in this progressive Baker City you rightly decided that I must pay the penalty for the deed you believed that I had done."

He paused a moment and then continued in another tone:

"Now there is nothing I regret more than the sad death of Mr. Pinkerton. He was a man we all honoured and respected. I am glad you do not now believe that I was his slayer. With those who raised that calumny against me--should I meet them--I will deal as seems fit to me."

A great cheer followed this.

Apache Kid cleared his throat.

"Men of Baker City!" he cried, "I wish, finally, to thank you for this so exuberant expression of your regret that you believed me guilty."

They took this better than I expected. A cheer in which you heard an undercurrent of rich laughter filled the street and drowned his last words:

"I bear you no ill will."

He bowed, backed from the balcony-rail into the saloon, touched me on the arm where I stood by the door, and before those who had followed us in well knew what we were about, we had run through the sitting-room that gave out on that balcony, gained the rear of the house, and were posting back to the jail by the rear street.

But there, relieved at last of the anxiety that had held me together all the way from the Lost Cabin Mine, knowing now that my friend was safe, all the vigour seemed to leave me.

My memory harked back to the nights in the forests on the hillsides, to the attack upon us on the shoulder of Baker Ridge, to the mud-slide, to the night of Canlan's madness, and the previous night of his onslaught on our camp. Larry Donoghue loomed in my mind's eye, large-framed, loose-limbed, heavy-mouthed. Again I saw the summit over which we passed, the Doreesque ravines and piled rocks, the forest trail, the valley where Mr. Pinkerton lay, on the cliff of which I had faced the terrors of the snake. I saw the Indians trooping at the ford, the dead men lying in the wood at Camp Kettle, the red-headed man in the Rest House, the loathsome "drummer" at the Half-Way House,--and all the while the sheriff's voice was in my ears and sometimes Apache's replying.

My brain was in a whirl, and I heard the sheriff say:

"That boy is sick looking."

He said it in a kind, reassuring voice, and I knew that I was in the home of friends, and need no longer keep alert and watchful and fearful. My chin went down upon my breast.

I had a faint recollection of fiery spirits being poured down my throat, and then of being caught by the arm-pits and lifted and held for awhile, and of voices whispering and consulting around me. Then I felt the air in my face, and came round sufficiently to know I was in the street, and the dim ovals of faces turned on me, following me as I was hurried forward at what seemed a terrible speed, and then I opened my eyes to find myself in a room with the blind down at the open window.

It was night time, for the room was in darkness, and I lay looking at a thin cut in the yellow blind, a cut of about three inches long, through which the moonlight filtered; and as I looked at it I saw it begin to move with a wriggling motion, and even as I looked on it it stretched upward and downward from either end. At the top ran out suddenly two horizontal cuts, the lower end split in two, and ran out left and right, and then it all turned into the form of a man like a jumping-jack, with twitching legs and waving arms. A head grew out of it next, and rolled from side to side; it was the figure of Mike Canlan. I turned my head on the pillow and groaned.

"Heavens!" I cried, "I am haunted yet by this."

And then a great number of voices began whispering in a corner of the chamber. I cried out in terror, and then the door opened and a woman entered, carrying a candle, shaded with one hand, the light of it striking upon her freckled face and yellow hair.

It was Mrs. Laughlin, and she sat down by me and took my hand, feeling my pulse, and ran her rough palm across my brow. She may have been a belligerent woman, and had many "tiffs" with her husband, but I cannot tell you how soothing was her rough touch to me then,--rough, but extremely kind.

The whisperings kept on, but very faint now,--fainter and fainter in my ears like far echoes, and, holding her bony hand, I fell asleep.

The fever of the mountains, the weariness of the way, the fear of pursuit, the smell of powder, and the sight of dead men's eyes,--all these I had braced myself against. But now I steeled myself no longer. Now I rested, I, who had feared much and yet been strong (which I have heard persons say is the greatest form of bravery,--the coward's bravery), I rested fearless, clinging to this worn woman's hand.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

_*The Beginning of the End*_

I feel somehow that I have to apologise for "giving in" that way. I should have liked to figure before you like a cast-iron hero. But when I set out to tell you this story I made up my mind to tell the truth about all those concerned in it--myself included.

I could not understand how Apache Kid kept so fresh through it all. But, of course, you remember what he told me of his life, and he was, as the saying is, "hard as nails." Yet he avoided commiserating me on my condition, being a man quick enough to understand that I resented this break-down. He even went the length of telling me, as he sat in my room, that he felt "mighty rocky after that trip," himself. And when the doctor pronounced that I might get up, he told me that I was getting off very easily.

On two points I had to question Apache Kid and his answers to my questions gave me a further insight into his character. The first of these matters was regarding the wealth we had brought with us from the Lost Cabin Mine.

"I have done nothing about it yet," said he. "I thought it advisable for us to go together to the bank."

I looked my surprise, I suppose.

"Then you have no idea what it amounts to yet?" I asked.

"No," said he. "You know it will neither increase nor diminish with waiting."

"But why did you wait?"

"O," he said lightly, "if a man cannot wait for his partner getting well, and do the thing ship-shape, he must be very impatient."

"You don't seem anxious, even, to know what you are really worth."

"I fear not," said he. "O, man, can't you see that once we know, to a five-cent piece, what all that loot is worth, we are through with the adventure and there's no more fun to be had? I'm never happy when I get a thing. It's in the hunting that I find relief."

But there fell a shadow on his face then.

I asked him if Miss Pinkerton was still in Baker City. I declare, he blushed at the very mention of her name. I could see the red tinge the brown of his cheeks.

I often wondered, when Apache Kid spoke, just what he was really thinking. He did not always say what he thought, or believe what he said. He had a way, too, of giving turns to his phrases that might have given him a name for a hardness that was not really his.

"O," he said, "she heard that you were ill and wanted to come and look after you, but you were babbling not just of green fields, exactly--you were babbling of Hell--and I can never get over a foolish idea that early in youth was pumped into me that women do not know about Hell and should not know. I thought it advisable to prevent her coming to see you--and hear you."

I felt my own cheeks tingle to think that I had been raving such ravings as he hinted at.

"And did Mrs. Laughlin----" I began.

But Mrs. Laughlin herself replied, coming quietly into the room.

"Yes, yes," she said, and laughed. "Mrs. Laughlin heerd it all," and then she turned on Apache Kid. "And Mrs. Laughlin was none the worse o' hearing it, Apache Kid," she said, "not because she 's old, but because in gettin' up in years she 's learnt how to weigh things and know the good from the bad, even though the good does look bad. Oh! I know what you are thinking right now," she interrupted herself. "You 're thinkin' you might remark I don't have no call to talk 'cause I heerd you talkin' just now without you knowin'----"

"Madam----" began Apache Kid, in a courteous voice, but she would not permit him to speak.

"I was coming along in my stocking soles, in case the lad was sleeping," and she plucked up her dress to disclose her stockinged feet, "and I heerd by accident what you was talkin'. And I 'm going to tell you, Mr. Apache Kid, that you 're a deal better a man than you pretend."

It was, to me, an unlooked-for comment, for her manner was almost belligerent.

"You had it pumped into you, you says! O! An old woman like me understands men well. It's you sarcastic fellows, you would-be sarcastic fellows, that have the kind, good hearts. And you talk that way to kind of protect them."

I saw Apache Kid knitting his brows; but, as for me, I do not know enough of human nature to profess to understand all that this wise woman spoke.

"Take you care, Apache Kid," she said, and shook her finger at him, and even on her finger, as I noticed, there were freckles, and on the back of her hand. "Take you care that you don't get to delude yourself into hardness, same as you delude men into thinking you a dangerous sort o' fellow--a kind of enigma man."

"I am afraid I don't follow you," said Apache Kid.

"But you do follow me," she said. "All you want to do is to let yourself go--let that bit of yourself go and have its way--that bit that you always make the other half of you sit and jeer at!"

She paused, and then shaking her finger again remarked solemnly:

"Or you 'll maybe find that the good, likeable half o' you ain't a half no longer, only a quarter, dwindled down to a quarter, and the half of you that puts up this bluff in the face of men becomes three-quarter then. I 'm thinking I would n't like you so good then, Apache Kid! Not but what I 'd be----" she hesitated, "sorry for you like," she said.

"To win your sorrow, Mrs. Laughlin," said he, looking on her solemnly, "would be a desirable thing."

She gazed at him a long while, and to my utter astonishment, for I did not quite understand all this, there were tears in her eyes when she said, as to herself, "Yes, you mean that."

She sighed, and then said she: "What you need is to settle down with a good, square, honest girl. If I was younger like myself----" she broke off merrily.

Apache Kid looked her in the face with interested eyes.

"I wish I knew just what you were like, just how you spoke and acted when you were--in the position you have suggested as desirable."

"Would you have had me?" she said.

"I would perhaps have failed to know you possessed all these qualities you do, for you would never have shown them to me."

"Would I not?" said she. "Well, I show myself now; and if you object to young girls not showing their real selves, you begin and set 'em the example. You go down to the Half-Way House and show that Miss Pinkerton your real self, and----"

"Mrs. Laughlin!" he said. "I would not have expected this----"

"Why!" she cried, "I'm old enough to be your grandmother. Well, well! I see the lad is all right; that's what I came up for, so I 'll get away down again."

"Laughlin has certainly a jewel of a wife," said Apache Kid, after she departed, and that was all on the matter.

Miss Pinkerton herself was not mentioned again by either of us, and the other subject of our talk we settled two days later, when I, having "got to my legs" again on the day following that chat, accompanied Apache Kid to the jail where the sheriff unlocked the safe for us and gave us our property, which he had in keeping.

The horse, I heard then, had been returned to the livery stable from which Canlan had hired it.

All that the sheriff had to say on the matter of our property was to the effect that though two of the Lost Cabin owners had been often enough known to say that they had no living relative, the other--Jackson--was supposed to have a sister living.

"If you want to do the square thing," said he, "you ought to advertise for her."

Apache turned to me.

"I forgot that," said he; "I forgot to tell you," and he drew a newspaper from his pocket. "Don't you get the 'Tribune,' Sheriff!"

He opened the paper and pointed to his announcement for relatives of J. E. Jackson.

"I have put it in this local rag," said he, "and a similar one in a dozen leading papers over the States, and in three of the smaller papers in his own State. I heard he was an Ohio man."

The sheriff held out his hand.

"I once reckoned," said he, "that we 'd be ornamenting a telegraph pole in Baker City with you, but now I reckon we will see you sheriff of Carson City, sure."

Apache Kid took the proffered hand and shook it; but he showed me deeper into himself again when he said in a dry voice:

"I don't think, Sheriff, that there will be any real need for you to congratulate me any oftener than you have done already, on finding out further mistakes you have made in your attempts to discover my real character."

And so saying we went out; and as I shook the sheriff's hand I noticed that he took mine absently. I think he was pondering what my friend had said.

"One grows weary of patronage," said Apache Kid to me as we plodded along the deserted streets to the bank.

"Deserted streets?" you say. Yes, deserted. For an "excitement" had sprung up at Tremont during my ten days in bed. As we passed the hotels on our way to the bank, the hotels that had always been thronged and full of voices, the doors always on the swing, we saw now on the verandah of each of them one solitary man, with chair tilted back and feet in the rail. These were the worthy proprietors, each figuring on the chances of Baker City booming again, each wondering if he should follow the rush.

As we passed the corner of the street in which "Blaine's joint" had stood, I noticed above the door and window a strip of wood less sun-scorched than the rest. That was where the famous canvas sign had been, rolled up now and carted off with the coffee-urn to this other "city" that had depopulated Baker City. The stores, of course, were still open; for the city which is centre for five paying mines can never die. It may not always _boom_, with megaphones in every window and cigar smoke curling in the streets, but it will not _languish_.

Still, it was not the Baker City that I knew of yore, and as we entered the door of the bank, carrying our bullion, it struck me that the stage-setting was just in keeping with the part we played; for as Apache Kid had said--when we knew our wealth the adventure would be over. This was the last Act, Scene I. And I felt a quiver in my heart when the thought intruded itself, even then, that Scene II (and last) would be a farewell to Apache Kid.

Slowly the teller in the bank weighed out our nuggets, scanning us between each weighing over his gold-rimmed glasses and noting down the amounts on his writing pad.

"Grand total," said he, and paused to awaken the thrill of suspense, "forty thousand dollars."

"Forty thousand dollars," thought I, "and fifteen hundred in notes, that makes forty-one thousand five hundred."

"A mere flea-bite," Apache said.

"I beg your pardon?" said the teller, astonished.

"A mere flea-bite," repeated Apache Kid. "Look at that," and he held up a turquoise in his fingers. "Don't you think a man would give forty-one thousand five hundred for a bagful of these?"

"A bagful?" said the teller.

Apache nodded.

"Do you wish to dispose of some of these, too?" the teller asked.

"No, thanks," said Apache Kid. "They go to an eastern market."

"An eastern market!" Did that mean that Apache Kid was going east? Was I to have his company home? Home I myself was going. But he--as I looked at his brown face, the alert eyes puckered at the side with long life in the sunshine, the lips close with much daring (and I think just a little hard), the jaws firm with much endurance, and that self-possessed bearing that one never sees in the civilised East, I knew he was not going back East.

The tiny gold ear-rings might be removed, but the stamp of the man could not; and men of that stamp are not seen in cities.

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

_*Apache Kid Behaves Strangely at the Half-Way
House to Kettle*_

You hear people talk of the _Autumn feeling in the air_. Well, the Autumn feeling was in the air as we drove down through the rolling foothills to the Half-Way House.

My farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Laughlin had touched me deeply. It was only a word or two and a handshake, for when it comes to parting in the West, there is never any effusion--partings there are so frequent that people spare themselves the pain of them and make them brief. But nevertheless, they sting.

There was sunlight, to be sure, all the way; but that Autumn feeling was there. The sound of the wheels fell dead on the air, and we were all moody and quiet. I got it into my head that I was soon to say farewell to Apache Kid, and that forever. He was exceedingly thoughtful and silent, and I wondered if he was meditating on the suggestion of Mrs. Laughlin regarding the advisability of his settling down, asking Miss Pinkerton for her hand, and becoming a respectable person.

Before we came in sight of the Half-Way House we heard the dull rasp of a saw, and then, topping the second last roll of the sandy hills and swinging round the base of the last one, we went rocketing up to the hotel. A man at the wood trestle, which stood at the gable-end, straightened himself and looked up at our approach, and I saw that he was the red-headed man who had "held up" Apache Kid at the Rest House on our last journey.

Apache Kid's face went a trifle more thoughtful at sight of him, but just then Miss Pinkerton appeared at the door to welcome us. But when we alighted I detected something new in her manner toward us. What it was I cannot exactly tell. Certainly she was just as demure, as open-eyed, as natural as before. But she did not seem to require our presence now for all that she welcomed us in a friendly way. There was that in her manner that made me think she would bid us farewell just as innocently and pleasantly, and straightway forget about us. Her welcome seemed a duty.

"These are the two gentlemen I told you about, George," she said to the red-headed man. "Mr. Brooks," she introduced, "but I don't know your names, gentlemen, beyond just Apache Kid and Francis."

George nodded to us.

"I guess these names will serve," said he. "How do, gentlemen? Kind of close this eve."

"It is, indeed," said Apache Kid. "The Summer is ended, the harvest is past," he quoted.

"Yes," said George, "there is that feeling in the air, now."

"As if the end of all things was at hand," said Apache Kid.

He was looking George right in the eyes.

I thought something forbidding was in their exchange of glances, but then of course I had seen them meet before in the peculiar circumstances of which you know. Margaret, I think, saw nothing noteworthy (for all she was a woman), but then, she did not know that these men were acquainted; they gave no sign of that.

"You will want a wash before you eat," she said, ushering us in, and George nodded, and, "See you later," said he.

Margaret attended to our wants herself when we sat down to table in the fresh dining-room. But there was little said until the meal was over, and she sat down beside us. Apache Kid seemed to be thinking hard.

"Well, Miss Pinkerton," he said at last, making bread pills on the table and smoothing a few crumbs about in little mountain ridges and then levelling them again. "You remember what we told you about Mr. Pinkerton's last wishes for you?"

"Yes," she said, "I was telling George what pop had said."

Apache's eyebrows frowned a trifle, and then settled again.

"Yes?" he said, as though requesting an explanation of what she meant by this; but she remained silent.

"O, I thought perhaps the gentleman had made some suggestion, when you mentioned his name just now," said Apache Kid.

But she did not yet reply, and he went on again:

"Well, Miss Pinkerton, I may tell you that we failed to find any such bonanza at the Lost Cabin as we had hoped for."

Margaret Pinkerton stiffened, and I glanced up to see her looking on Apache's face with pin-points of eyes and a look on her face as though she said: "So--you are a contemptible fellow, after all."

I think she had really admired Apache Kid before, but I surmised--a third party, the one who looks on and does not talk, can surmise a great deal--that, as the saying is, she had been _tampered with_. She had heard tales against my friend, and now doubtless believed that she was provided with proof that he was a rogue. The look on her face was as though she were gaining confirmation.

"Excuse me interrupting," said George, in the doorway, "but I suppose you have speciments o' this ore."

I expected Apache Kid either to ignore the interruption or to recognise it with some sarcasm or flash of anger. Instead, he turned lightly to the speaker.

"Ah!" he said, "I had not noticed you. So you are interested in----" he paused, "in mines," he said.

Margaret stiffened, and George said easily:

"Well in this one I reckon I am."

"Ah yes," said Apache Kid. "There has been of course a lot of talk about it. Yes, I have specimens."

He produced two pieces and handed them to George, and then turning to Miss Pinkerton, he said:

"I was going to make a suggestion to you, Miss Pinkerton, remembering your father's desire that we--remembering the desire he expressed to us, I was going to make the suggestion, that, if it would not offend you, you would accept-- May I speak before this gentleman?"

"Certainly," said she, coldly.

He bowed.

"I was going to suggest that you might allow me to transfer to your bank the sum of--let me see--" and he took a paper from his pocket. It was inconceivable that he had forgotten the amount, but he glanced at the paper, and then looked up as though making a computation, but in so doing looked both at the young woman and at George, who was leaning against a neighbouring table. "The sum of twenty thousand, seven hundred and forty dollars," said he.

There was no change on his face; he spoke as lightly of the sum as might a Rockefeller, and his was the only face that remained immobile. But then, of course, he was the only one who knew what was coming.

George stared with a look of doubt.

Margaret looked at Apache Kid keenly and then at George for a long space, thoughtfully.

For me--I was thunderstruck. I gasped. I think I must have cried out something (I know that what I thought was: "Why! This is your entire share, apart from the turquoises,") for the three were all looking at me then.

I knew besides that he had no money left, apart from our Lost Cabin wealth; for he had told me so. Twenty thousand, seven hundred and fifty had been his share of the gold and ten dollars of this he had paid already for his seat in the stage. He was giving this girl all he had.

"It will not go very far," said Apache Kid, smiling. "It is, after all, very little to offer, but I am in hopes that within a fortnight or so I may be able to perhaps double the amount. I know," and now, if you like, I could see the sneer creep on his face, "I know that women are not mercenary and I must apologise for speaking of money matters. It was not only money matters that were in Mr. Pinkerton's mind, I believe. I believe it was your happiness that he was anxious about. I cannot pretend to myself that I could ever, by offering you money, wipe out the debt we owe him. I know that we were the cause of his death, though we did not fire the fatal shot. Money, to my mind, could never recompense for a life lost for others."

He looked up and saw Margaret's eyes fixed on him--and his eyes did not remove. He gazed into hers unflinching, and as he looked hers filled with tears. He had his head raised and she seemed to be looking clear into his soul. Her face was very beautiful to see then.

How George took all this I do not know; for I was looking on the girl.

"O!" she said, her voice quavering. "O, I think you are just _all right_."

Then she bowed her head and wept quietly to herself and as I could not bear to see her thus and do nothing to console her, I very softly rose to steal out. I knew myself a spectator, not an actor in this affair. Out into the red-gold evening I went and looked across the brown, rolling plain and Apache followed me and then George came after us and said quietly to him:

"What game is this you are playing?"

Apache Kid turned to him. "Be guided," he said, "by a woman's intuition. You saw that she knew I was playing no game."

And then he said very quietly: "Are you aware, George, that if I wished I could steal her away from you?"

The breath sucked into George's nostrils in a series of little gasps and came forth similarly.

"I believe you are a devil," he said. "And if it was n't for her, I 'd finish our other little matter right now."

"We will let that rest--for her sake," said Apache Kid. "Still, tell me, are you aware of that? Do you know that I am master here?"

George's face was pale under the sun-brown.

We were standing there in that fashion when there was a sound of slow hoofs in the sand and three ponies came ploughing along the road, an old, dry-faced Indian riding behind the string.

"You want to buy a horse?" he asked.

Apache Kid looked up.

"Well, we might trade," said he. "How much you want for them two, this and that?"

"Heap cheap," said the Indian. "Ten dollah."

"For two?"

"No, ten dollah for one, ten dollah for one."

"It's a trade then," said Apache Kid. "Will you lend me twenty dollars, Francis?"

I glanced at George and saw him looking dazed, uncomprehending.

I think the Indian was surprised there was no attempt to beat down the price and regretted he had not asked more.

When Apache Kid paid for the horses he gave me the halters to hold, stood absently a moment with puckered brows and biting lips, then drew a long breath and stepped into the house again. George did not follow but stood looking over the plain.

"What is his game?" said George.

"I do not know," said I, "but whatever it is you may be sure it is nothing mean."

George meditated and then:

"No, I guess not," he said. "He's too deep for me, though. I don't understand him. Did he ever tell you our little trouble?"

"No," said I.

"Neither will I, then," said he, "and I guess he never will."

"I would n't think of asking him," said I.

"And he would n't think of telling," replied George.

And just then Apache Kid came out and Miss Pinkerton with him. I think it was as well that the verandah was in shadow.

"George," she said, and I at least caught a tremble in her voice. "Ain't this too bad? Apache Kid tells me that he has just reckoned on pulling out right away,--says he never meant to stay here over night. I wanted to lend him two of our mounts, but he says he 's got these two from an Indian, and they 'll serve. Do you think you could get a pair of saddles turned out?"

"Ce't'inly," said George; and away he went to rout out the saddles.

I could not understand Margaret's next remark.

"If they do come down after you," said she, "I 'll tell them----"

"Better tell them you did n't see us go away," interrupted Apache Kid. "Better just don't see us go away--and then you 'll be able to speak the truth. You won't know which way we went."

She seemed very sad at this, but George now returned with the saddles, and we were soon ready for the way, our blankets strapped behind.

Margaret held up her hand.

"Good-bye," she said.

"Good-bye, Miss Pinkerton," said Apache Kid.

She stretched up and said: "You 're too good a man to be----" I lost the rest, and, indeed, I was not meant to hear anything.

She shook hands with me.

"If ever you are in them parts again," she said, "don't forget us; but you 'll have to ask for Mrs. Brooks then."

Apache was holding out his hand to George, who took it quickly, with averted face.

"Good-bye, Mr. Brooks," said Apache Kid. "And, by the way, in case you might think it worth while to have a look at that ore in place, I 've left a map of your route to the mountain with Miss Pinkerton, and an account of how you might strike it. You can tell the sheriff of Baker you have it. He and Slim, that lean assistant of his, are the only men who know about the lie of the land; the Indian tracker does n't count. You can do what you like between you."

George seemed nonplussed.

"This," said he, "is real good of you, sir; but I don't know what you do it for."

"O!" said Apache Kid. "I told you I had n't much faith in its value, you remember."

"Yes, so you did," said George; but he seemed doubtful, and then suddenly took Apache Kid's hand again and shook it. "We 're friends, we two," said he.

"Why, sure, you 're friends," said Margaret, hastily; but her eyes looked out on the road to Baker City, and she seemed listening for some approach.

Apache touched his horse, and it wheeled and sidled a little and threw up the dust, and then suddenly decided to accept this new master.

My mount was duplicating that performance, and when he got started Margaret gave just one wave of her hand and, taking George by the arm, led him indoors. When we looked back, the house stood solitary in the sand.

"What does this mean?" I said.

But Apache Kid did not answer, and we rode on and on in silence while the evening darkened on the road to Camp Kettle.

But the look on Apache Kid's face forbade question.

*CHAPTER XXIX*

_*So-Long*_

You will hardly be astonished to hear that the saloons in Kettle are open night and day. Go there when you please, you need no "knocking-up" of sleepy attendants. The hotel door is never closed.

It was long after midnight when we came into the place, over the very road and at the same hour and at much the same speed as Mr. Pinkerton must have ridden in pursuit of us, not a month prior to this ride of ours. This road from Baker City to Camp Kettle was the base of a triangle over which we had travelled, as it were, at the apex of which triangle was the Lost Cabin Mine; and when we passed the place on the hillside, where we had gone so short a while before, something of a pang leapt in my heart. I bade farewell there to that terrible chapter in my life forever,--bade farewell there to the Lost Cabin Mine.

"I will have to borrow from you again," said Apache Kid (the first speech he had spoken since leaving the Half-Way House), as we came loping into Kettle at three of the morning. "Give me fifty dollars, and we'll settle later."

I told him the money was as much his as mine, and gave him what he asked before we reined up at the hotel door, where a wild-faced lad took our horses. An effeminate-looking youth, with that peculiar stamp that comes to effeminate youths in the West,--as though they counterbalanced their effeminacy, in so rugged a place, by keeping quiet, and so held their own among the strenuous majority,--led us to a double-bedded room (for we were very sleepy and desired to rest), we carrying up our blankets and belongings with us. He set a lamp in the room, wished us good-night with a smile,--for it was nigh morning, really a new day,--and we sat in silence, while on the low ceiling the smoke of the lamp wavered.

The room was close, stuffy, and Apache Kid flung open the window and moths straightway came fluttering in, moths as large as a dollar piece, and other strange insects, one like a dragon-fly that rattled on the roof and shot from side to side of the apartment so fiercely that it seemed rebounding from wall to wall by the force of its own impact.

Apache threw off his coat and blew out a deep breath.

"Warm," he said. "It's beastly to sleep indoors. No! This just adds proof. I could n't ever do with civilised ways, now. That girl," and he nodded towards the west, "she is mine, or she was mine--when she found that she had been right after all in her opinion of me. And she swung back to me more than ever strong because she had been lured away. But I--" he threw up his head and cried the words out in a whisper, so to speak: "I must never be weighed in the balance before being accepted. I must just be accepted. That is why I like you. You just accept me. But I made it all right with her. She will never regret having believed George's stories of me for when I went back to her and put the roll down and said: 'For your father's sake, Miss Pinkerton--you will accept this,' you could see that she wanted to ask forgiveness for having put me in her black books. But I put that all right."

"How?" I asked, for he had paused.

"Oh, I told her I was a villain, told her I fully expected to be arrested there and had only stopped to settle my promise to her father. It was a different thing for me to tell her I was a villain from another telling her that. When a villain tells his villainy to the ear of a woman he becomes almost a hero to her. She begged me to change my ways, and I promised that for her sake I would. Quite romantic, eh? A touch of Sydney Carton--eh?" and he laughed. "And now she will remember me, if she does not indeed forget me, as a good fellow gone wrong, and thank God she has so good a husband as George. And George is not so bad a fellow. He can appreciate his master when he meets him. That is one good point about George. George is like the lion in the cage, the lion that roars in rage after the tamer has gone and determines to slay him on his next visit. But on the next visit he goes through his tricks as usual. It's a pleasure at least to know that George at last was forced to hold out his hand to me and call himself my friend. He does n't know why he did. He 'll remember and wonder and he'll never understand. That day that he came in and held me up,--you remember?--I said to myself: 'You come to kill me to-day, but the day will come, not when I will crush you, but when you will come to me just like my little poodle dog.'"

He broke off and smote the buzzing insect to the floor as it blundered past his face (he was sitting on a chair with his arms folded on the back) and drew his foot across it.

"And he came, didn't he?" he added. "My poodle dog!

"But after all," he said, after a pause, "a woman that could be moved by my little poodle dog could never be the woman for me. When I look for a woman it must be one who does not doubt me--and who does not fear me. She did not fear me and that was why I thought-- Ah well, you see, she doubted me. But let's to bed."

So we put out the light and turned in.

But I lay some time considering that Apache Kid was not the domineering man his words might have caused one to think. He covered up a deal of what was in his heart with a froth of words.

Next day (or I should say, later in that day), we continued our journey, after a few hours' sleep and a monstrous breakfast; but never another word was spoken on the matter of the previous night and in the bright afternoon we came into Kettle River Gap and found that the "east-bound" was due at three in the afternoon.

In the hotel to which we repaired for refreshment Apache Kid wrote a letter to a dealer in New York, a letter which I was to deliver in person, carrying with me the turquoises.

"One gets far better prices in New York than in any of the western towns," explained Apache Kid. "You can rely on this fellow, too. We are old friends, and he will do the square thing. You can send on half the amount to me, deducting what you have lent me."

"Oh, nonsense!" said I.

"Deducting what you have lent me," he repeated. "Twenty dollars at the Half-Way House and fifty at Camp Kettle. That makes seventy."

"You will need some more," said I.

"No," said he. "I have still almost all the fifty, of course, and I can sell the two pintos for what I paid for them. Don't worry me. I have never been obliged to a soul in my life for anything."

But looking up and catching my eye looking sadly on him he smiled and: "Humour me," he said, "humour me in this."

When the letter was written he handed it to me, open, and said:

"Well, that is all, I think, until we hear the east-bound whistle."

My heart was in my mouth.

"That other matter?" I said.

"What other?" said he.

"You wanted me to do something for you in the old country."

"True," said he, and sat pondering; and then coming to a conclusion he wrote a name and address on another sheet, and putting it in an envelope, which he sealed, he said: "When you reach home you can open that, and--it should be easy enough to find out who lives there. If they are gone, you can trace them without anyone knowing what you are doing. They must never know about me, however. You will promise?"

"I promise," said I.

"You can write to--let me see--say, where shall I go now?--say Santa Fe--to be called for."

"Had you not better come home?" I asked half-fearfully, and he looked at me as twice I had seen him look,--once, when he silenced the "Dago" livery-stable keeper; once, when he silenced the sheriff. I knew Apache Kid liked me; but at that glance I knew he had never let me quite close to himself. There was a barrier between him and all men. But the look passed, and said he, slowly and definitely:

"I can never go home."

We went out into the air and sat silent till the east-bound whistled and whistled and screamed nearer and nearer.

It was while we sat there that I remembered that he had advertised for Jackson's relatives, and asked what he would do if they were heard of.

He had evidently forgotten about that, for he seemed put out, and then remarked that he would send them his share of the turquoises, still to be disposed of.

"But you----" I began, and he held up his hand.

"I don't want the stuff, anyhow," said he. "Now--don't worry me. Don't ask me questions. What I like about you is that you take me for granted. Don't spoil the impression of yourself you have given me by wanting to know how I will get on, and thinking me foolish for what I intend to do." He looked round on me. "Yes," said he, "I like you. Do you know that the fact that you had never asked me what George Brooks and I were enemies for made me your most humble servant? Would you like to hear that story?"

I nodded.

"Well, well," he said, and laughed. "That makes me like you all the more. You are really interested, and yet are polite enough not to ask questions. Yes--that's the sort of man I like."

But he had no intention of telling me that affair,--just chuckled to himself softly and remarking, "That must remain a mystery," he lapsed again into silence.

And then the train whistled at the last curve, shot into sight, and came thundering and screaming into the depot.

"Oh! Apache Kid," said I, "I cannot go to-day. I must wait till to-morrow."

"That is a pity," said he, "for then you would have to wait here alone all to-morrow. I go West with to-morrow morning's 'west-bound.'"

"Ah, then," said I, "I will go with this one; for I could not stand the loneliness here with you flying away from me."

"No?" he said, half inquiringly; and then he surveyed me, interested, and said again, "No, not so easily as I can stand your departure--I suppose." But he looked away as he spoke.

My belongings lay just in the doorway, ready to hand, and these he lifted, boarding the train with me and finding me a seat. This was no sooner done than the conductor outside intoned his "All aboard!"

Apache Kid snatched my hand.

"Well," said he, "in the language of the country--so-long!"

I had no word to say. I took his hand; but he gave me only the fingers of his, and, whirling about, lurched down the aisle of the car, for the train had already started, and the door swung behind him. I tried to raise the window beside me, but it was fast, and by the time I had the next one raised and looked out, all the depot buildings were in the haze of my tears, in the midst of which I saw half a dozen blurred, waving hands, and though I waved into that haze I do not know whether Apache Kid was one of those who stood there or not.

So the last I really saw of Apache Kid was his lurching shoulder as he passed out of the swinging car.

*CHAPTER XXX*

_*And Last*_