Louisiana Lou. A Western Story

Why tell her about it? He had no ties; no aims; nothing to regret leaving. He had nothing but wealth which was useless to him, but which would lift her above all unhappiness after he was gone. And he could kill the desert rat as he would snuff out a candle.

Yet – the thought of it gave him a qualm. The man was so contemptible; so unutterably low and vile and cowardly. To kill him would be like crushing vermin. He would not fight; he would cower and cringe and shriek. There might be a battle when they took De Launay for the “murder,” of course, but even his passing, desperate as he might make it, would not entirely wipe out the disgrace of such a butchery. He was a soldier; a commander with a glorious record, and it went against the grain to go out of life in an obscure brawl brought on by the slaughter of this rat.

Still, he had dedicated himself to the service of this girl, half in jest, perhaps, but it was the only service left to him to perform. He had lived his life; had his little day of glory. It was time to go. She was his wife and to her he would make his last gesture and depart, serving her.

Then, as he looked at her, her eyes opened and flashed upon him. In their depths something gleamed, a new light more baffling than any he had seen there before. There was fire and softness, warmth and sweetness in it. He dropped on his knees beside the bunk.

“What is it, mon ami?” Solange was smiling at him, a smile that drew him like a magnet.

“Nothing,” he said, and rose to his feet. Her hand had strayed lightly over his hair in that instant of forgetfulness. “I looked to see that you were comfortable.”

“You are changed,” she said, uncertainly. “It is better so.”

He smiled at her. “Yes. I am changed again. I am the légionnaire. Nameless, hopeless, careless! You must sleep, mon enfant! Good night!”

He brushed the hand she held out to him with his lips and turned to the door. As he went out she heard him singing softly:

“Soldats de la Légion,
De la Légion Etrangère,
N’ayant pas de Nation,
La France est votre Mère.”

He did not see that the light in her marvelous eyes had grown very tender. Nor did she dream that he had made a mat of his glory for her to walk upon.

CHAPTER XX

LOUISIANA!

On the following morning, De Launay, finding his patients doing well, once more left the camp after seeing that everything was in order and food for the invalids prepared and set to their hands. Among Solange’s effects he had found a pair of prism binoculars, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he made his way on foot to the lower end of the valley, up the encircling cliffs and out on the ridge which surrounded the crater.

Here he hunted until he came upon a narrow, out-jutting ledge which overlooked the country below and the main backbone of the range to the southward and eastward. From here he could see over the bench at the base of the cliff, with its maze of tangled, down timber, and on to the edge of Shoestring Cañon, though he could not see down into that gulch. Above Shoestring, however, he could see the rough trail which wound out of the cañon on the opposite side and up toward the crest of the range, where it was lost among the timber-clad gorges and peaks of the divide. Over this trail came such folk as crossed the range from the direction of Maryville. All who came from the Idaho side would head in by way of Shoestring and come up the cañon.

That day, although he swept the hills assiduously with his glasses, he saw nothing. The dark smears and timber, startlingly black against the snow, remained silent, brooding and inviolate, as though the presence of man had never stirred their depths.

He did not remain long. Fearing that he would be needed at the cabin, he returned before noon. Solange was progressing bravely, though she was still weak. Sucatash, however, was in worse shape and evidently would not be fit to move for several days.

The next day he did not go to his post, but on the third morning, finding Sucatash improving, he again took up his vigil. On that day banked clouds hovered over the high peaks and nearly hid them from view. A chill and biting wind almost drove him from his post.

Seeing nothing, he was about to return, but, just as a heavy flurry of snow descended upon him, he turned to give one last look toward the divide and found it lost in mist which hung down into the timber. Under this fleecy blanket, the cañon and the lower part of the trail stood forth clearly.

Just as De Launay was about to lower his glasses, a man rode out of the timber, driving before him a half dozen pack horses. The soldier watched him as he dropped below the rim of the cañon and, although distant, thought he detected signs of haste in his going.

This man had been gone hardly more than ten minutes when a second horseman rode down the trail. There might have been doubt in the case of the first rider, but it was certain that the second was in a hurry. He urged his horse recklessly, apparently in pursuit of the first man, whom he followed below the cañon’s rim.

De Launay was earlier than usual at his post the next day. Yet he was not too early to meet the evidence of activity which was even more alert than his. But before he could settle himself he saw the trail across the cañon alive with moving men and beasts. In ones, twos, and threes they came. Some rode singly and without outfit, while others urged on pack animals. But one and all were in a hurry.

He counted more than twoscore travelers who dropped into Shoestring within an hour and a half. Then there was a pause in the rush. For an hour no more came.

After that flowed in another caravan. His glasses showed these were better equipped than the first comers though he was too far away to get any accurate idea of what they carried. Still a dim suspicion was filling his mind, and as each of the newcomers rushed down the trail and over the cañon rim his suspicion took more vivid form until it became conviction and knowledge.

“By heavens! It’s a mining rush!”

His mind worked swiftly. He jumped at the evidence he had seen where Banker had staked a claim. The prospector had ridden to Maryville to record the claims. He had been followed, and in an incredibly short time here were veritable hordes rushing into Shoestring Cañon. If this was the vanguard what would be the main body? It must have been a strike of fabulous proportions that had caused this excitement. And that strike must be —

“French Pete’s Bonanza!” he almost yelled.

The thing was astounding and it was true. In naming a rendezvous he, himself, had directed these men to the very spot – because there was no other spot. The obvious, as usual, had been passed by for years while the seekers had sought in the out-of-the-way places. But where would Pete find a mine when he was returning to the ranch with his flock? Surely not in the out-of-the-way places, for he would not be leading his sheep by such ways. He would be coming through the range by the shortest and most direct route, the very route that was the most frequented – and that was the trail over the range and down Shoestring Cañon.

De Launay wanted to shout with laughter as he thought of the search of years ending in this fashion: the discovery of the Bonanza, under the very nose of the dead man’s daughter, by the very man who had murdered him!

But his impulse was stifled as his keen mind cast back over the past days. He recalled the rescue of Solange and the ambush from the top of the great, flat outcrop. Vague descriptions of Pete’s location, heard in casual talks with Solange, came to him. The old sheep-herder had been able to describe his find as having been made where he had eaten his noonday meal “on a rock.” That rock – the Lunch Rock, as it had been called, had even given the mine a name in future legend, as the Peg Leg had been named.

But there had been no rock that could answer the description near the camp. At least there had been only one, and that one had been the flat outcrop on which Banker had lain at length and from which he had attempted to shoot De Launay.

Then swiftly he recalled Solange’s cry of warning and his own swift reaction. He had fired at the eyes and forehead appearing above the edge of the rock and he had hit the edge of the rock itself. He had laughed to see the mad prospector clawing at his eyes, filled with the powdered rock, and had laughed again to see his later antics as he stood upright, while De Launay rode away, waving his arms in the air and yelling.

He saw now what had caused those frantic gestures and shouts. It had been he, De Launay, who had uncovered to the prospector’s gaze the gold which should have been mademoiselle’s.

No wonder he had no desire to laugh as he turned back into the valley. He was weighted down with the task that was his. He had to tell Solange that the quest on which she had come was futile. That her mine was found – but by another, and through his own act. He visualized those wonderful eyes which had, of late, looked upon him with such soft fire, dulling under the chilling shock of disappointment, mutely reproaching him for her misfortune and failure.

The wild Vale of Avalon, which had seemed such a lovely haven for Morgan la fée, had lost its charm. He plodded downward and across the rank grass, going slowly and reluctantly to the cabin. Entering it, he went first to Sucatash, asking him how he felt.

The cow-puncher raised himself with rapidly returning strength, noting the serious expression on De Launay’s face.

“I’m getting right hearty,” he answered. “I’ll drag myself out and sit up to-night, I reckon. But you don’t look any too salubrious yourself, old-timer. Aimin’ to answer sick call?”

“No,” said De Launay. “Thinking about mademoiselle. You remember those stakes we saw?”

“Banker’s claim? Sure.”

“Well, he’s struck something. There is a small army pouring into Shoestring from Maryville. It’s a regular, old-time gold rush.”

“Damn!” said Sucatash, decisively.

He pondered the news a moment.

“In these days,” he finally said, “with gold mines bein’ shut down because it don’t pay to work ’em, there wouldn’t be no rush unless he’d sure struck something remarkable.”

“You’ve guessed it!” said De Launay.

“It’s French Pete’s mine?”

“I don’t see any other explanation.”

Again Sucatash was silent for a time. Then:

“That little girl is sure out o’ luck!” he said. There was a deep note of sympathy in the casual comment. And the cow-puncher looked at De Launay in a manner which the soldier readily interpreted.