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Updated: April 30, 2025
He rode in hot haste, heading grimly for Blackwater, and when he spurred down the main street the crowd set up a yell, for they had learned to watch for him now. When Wunpost came to town there was sure to be something doing, something big that called for the drinks; and all the pocket-miners and saloon bums were there, lined up to see him come in.
Why not make a straight smoke, the way a white man would, and let it go at that? Wunpost shook his head sagely and turned away from the gap he had had enough excitement for that trip. Bone Canyon, for which he headed, was still far away and the sun was getting low; but Wunpost knew, even if others did not, that there was a water-hole well up towards the summit.
His departure from Los Angeles had been promptly reported, and Lynch and several others had left town which was yet another reason why Wunpost quit the hills and went north over the Death Valley Trail. Life had suddenly become a serious affair to the man who had discovered the Willie Meena, and as he neared that mine he veered off to the right and took the high ground to Wild Rose.
"You shoot me get money?" he inquired, slapping his leg; and Manuel Apache grinned guiltily. He was caught now, and ashamed, but not of attempting murder he was ashamed of having been caught. "Trap hurt!" he complained, drawing up his wrinkled face and rattling his chain impatiently, and Wunpost nodded gravely. "All right," he said, "I'll turn you loose.
I'm burned out on this town don't like it nothing about it but you, now, you're different, you never done me any injury. You're my friend, ain't that right, you're my friend!" The barkeeper reassured him and held his breath while he poured out another drink and then, as Wunpost renewed his protestations, Fellowes thanked him for his present of the nugget.
For Wunpost had a limp in his good right leg which partially conveyed the answer, and it was his private opinion that Lynch had gone bad and was out in the hills to kill him. Hence his avoidance of the peaks, and even the open trail; and the way he rode into water after dark.
As for John C. Calhoun, a close student of inebriety might have noticed that he became sober too quick; but he invested their departure in such a wealth of mystery that the barkeeper was more than satisfied. A short ways out of town Wunpost turned out into the rocks and milled around for an hour; and then, when their trail was hopelessly lost, he led the way into the hills.
Wunpost was so puffed up with pride over the devotion of his dog that he would be pleased beyond measure to have him follow, and from her lookout on the ridge she could watch where Good Luck went and spy out the trail for miles. It was time to turn back if she was to reach home by dark, but that white, scurrying form was too good a marker and she followed him through her glasses for an hour.
"He can't!" chuckled Wunpost starting to do a double-shuffle, "I fooled him this isn't Nevada. And when I found the Wunpost I was eating his grub, but this time I was strictly on my own. I came to a country where I'd never been before, so he couldn't say I'd covered it up; and that contract was made out in the state of Nevada, but this is clear over in California.
"How do you mean?" queried Campbell, still reaching for the contract; and the jack-in-the-box thrust it into his hands. "Why, he used that same paper to claim the Wunpost he can't claim every mine I find!" "Well, we'll see," returned Campbell, putting on his glasses, and Wunpost flew into a fury.
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