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"Don't what?" inquired Brand, with only partial interest. "Why, that," cried the man, still pointing. "Ther' it is, all writ up ther'. It's in Minky's writin', too. They're sendin' out a stage, Wednesday. Git a peek at it." But Brand and his companion did not wait for his final suggestion. They, too, had already joined the cluster, and stood craning on the outskirts of it.
"How ken I read this yer muck with you throwin' hot air?" Scipio desisted, and sat staring vacantly at the long ears of Minky's mule. He was gazing on a mental picture of Jessie as he considered she must have looked when writing that letter. He saw her distress in her beautiful eyes. There were probably tears in her eyes, too, and the thought hurt him and made him shrink from it.
Never had there been such a gathering in Minky's store; and his heart must have been rejoiced to see the manner in which so many of the dollars he had expended in the purchase of gold-dust came fluttering back to their nest in his till. The camp appeared to have made up its mind to an orgy of the finest brand. Drink flowed and overflowed. The store that night fairly swam in whisky.
The men are "grouchy." They jostle harshly as they push up to Minky's counter for the "appetizers" they do not need. Their greetings are few, and mostly confined to the abrupt demand, "Any luck?"
And his attitude promptly set up a new feeling in the camp. Minky's heroic pose had not struck the people before. But now the full force of it struck home in a manner which suddenly raised him to a great pinnacle of popularity. The storekeeper of Suffering Creek was standing between the camp and possible financial disaster. It was noble. It was splendid.
There lay the camp nestling on the far side of the creek. There stood Minky's store, lording it over its lesser fellows with the arrogance of successful commerce. He could see a small patch of figures standing about its veranda, and he knew that many eyes were watching for a final sight of him at the moment when he should vanish over the hill. They were friendly eyes, too, he knew.
Meanwhile they would take a holiday on the proceeds of their traffic, and, out of sheer good-fellowship, stand by to help, or at least applaud, when the dénouement came. Many of the shrewder men looked to Wild Bill to give a key to the situation. They knew him to be Minky's closest friend.
"Guess I'll pass it out." Then he stood up, staring down at the stiffened body; and wonder looked out of his puzzled eyes. "Gee! if it ain't Wild Bill the gambler, an' an' he must ha' bin dead nigh six hours." It was with strangely mixed feelings that Scipio drove Minky's old mule down the shelving trail leading into the secret valley where stood James' ranch-house.
"That's how I was figgerin'," said Sandy cordially. He felt better now about his first effort. "Y'see, Minky's stock is limited some; ther' ain't a heap o' variety, like. An' kiddies do need variety. Y'see, they're kind o' delicate feeders, same as high-bred hosses, an' dogs an' things. Now, dogs need diff'rent meat every day, if you're goin' to bring 'em up right.
He turned away and gathered up the old mule's reins. "You've allus been friendly to me, Bill, so " He pulled off the trail and turned the mule's head in the direction of home. And the rest of the gambler's journey was done in the wake of Minky's buckboard. Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek.
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