"That's so," the other agreed. "But she'll expect me to know where thisyer mine is."
"You have had an illness and it has left lapses in your memory," Lesurge explained. "You'll remember just enough about your father to gain her confidence--I can put you wise to that." The old man nodded approvingly. "I call that cute," he said. "You got this all figured out, mister. How d'you hear 'bout her daddy bein' bumped off?"
"Miss Ducane told me."
"I reckon he opened his mouth too wide," Snowy reflected, and his eyes grew cunning. "Hadn't thought o' that; them as got him might wanta get his brother too. I ain't honin' to pass out." Lesurge smiled; the old devil was playing for better terms, therefore he meant to come in. "We'll take care of you," he assured. "We have to--you'll be our big card. Think of it, man; you'll have more gold than you could spend in another lifetime, gold to play with, gold to throw away." The wizard word brought a fanatic gleam in the prospector's half-shut eyes. "Gold--beautiful red gold," he mumbled, and then, "If we make good, what about the gal?"
"She'll get her fair share, one-fourth, of course," was the reply. "That's fair, I think, eh?" The old man's assent was reluctant. "Shore, but it'll be a lot o' coin for a gal," he muttered.
"Well, perhaps we can come to some arrangement," Lesurge said. "I take it you're willing to join us?" Snowy snatched up the bottle. "Here's life an' luck to Philip Ducane, seein' I'm to be him," he cried, and tipped the raw spirit down his throat.
The reckless act evidently spurred the younger man's memory. "That's one of the things you'll have to lay off a bit," he warned. "I won't stand for drunken babblers."
"See here, mister," Snowy said thickly. "I run away from home as a boy because I wouldn't take orders, I never have took 'em, an' I ain't goin' to start now. You come to me, I didn't come to you. Pin that in yore hat an' take a peek at it times you feel too brash." Lesurge bit his lip, inwardly promising himself that he would get even with the cantankerous old crook. But for the moment he must temporize.
"I'm not giving orders, merely a piece of advice," he said quietly. "And here's another: clean yourself up a bit--the girl won't want to be ashamed of her relative. All I'm asking you to remember is that a pile of money is at stake."
"When d'you aim to break the glad tidin's?" Snowy asked, a suspicion of a jeer in his tone.
"In the morning, but I'll see you first and prime you in readiness. Good-night." Holding on to his rickety door, the old man watched him go, a grin of derision upon his unwashed features. Then he grabbed the bottle, ruefully regarded the small quantity remaining, drained, and flung it after the disappearing form of his visitor.
"To hell with you an' yore advice, Mister Lesurge," he said shrilly. "I'll do as I damn please, but--I'm agoin' to get that gold, an' I ain't trustin' you--no, sir, you got a mean eye an' yore neck looks like it oughta have a rope round it." He dived again into his abode and the Pioneer Saloon missed his custom that night. But it had that of Fagan, who made up for it so completely that Lesurge was moved to caustic comment:
"With two drunkards to help me I have a fine chance of putting over a big deal." Drink affects men in different ways; some it makes merry and genial; others, ill-tempered and pugnacious; Fagan was of the latter type.
"How long you been a blue-ribboner?" he growled. "I've seen you lit up off'n enough." Paul Lesurge shrugged his shoulders. "I shall want you in the morning. If you are not sober I shall not want you--any more. You understand?" The cold, cutting tone and the plain threat brought Fagan to his senses. With a nod of comprehension, he pushed his glass away and stumbled out of the bar. He could not afford to quarrel with Paul Lesurge--yet, but deep in his mean little soul he hated this man so superior to himself, who never neglected an opportunity to vent upon him his vitriolic spleen.
With a sneering smile of satisfaction, Lesurge moved along the bar to where the two cowboys were standing.
"Oh, Mason, I want to thank you for assisting Miss Ducaneon the journey here," he began easily. "What actually happened?" The cowboy gazed at him with steady but hostile eyes; he did not like this well-dressed, good-looking stranger who had spirited his travelling companion away, and he resented the patronizing air.
"Yu'd better ask the fella who's just gone out," he replied. "Claims he's a. friend o' yores."
"I have employed him at times, but a friend, hardly," Paul explained. "As regards Miss Ducane, I do not think he will offend again. I--mentioned it."
"I had a word with him my own self," Mason said grimly. "Yu don't happen to be the uncle Miss Ducane come in search of, do yu?" The two-edged implication that he was either an old man or an interfering busybody brought a flush of anger even to the adventurer's impassive face, but he masked his emotion and replied coolly:
"I happen to know him, and I shall have the pleasure of bringing them together to-morrow morning." He reaped his revenge in full when he saw the crestfallen look on the boy's face; Lesurge had done what he had been hoping to do and the girl would no longer have any need of his help or protection.
"That let's you out," the other went on. "With her uncle and myself, the little lady will be well looked after." Having thus twisted the knife in the wound he strolled away. Mason looked at his companion.
"Jim," he said. "Did yu ever wanta take a fella by the throat an' slowly squeeze the life out'n him?"
"Mustn't let angry li'l tempers rise, of timer; it's a serious matter to take a human life."
"Who was talking o' that?" Mason retorted.
The other's eyes twinkled. "I gotta admit he does look awful like a skunk," he said.
Chapter III
Wayside had a shock on the following morning when it saw Paul Lesurge, accompanied by the man it knew as Snowy, enter the hotel. But it was not the Snowy they were familiar with; this one had hair and beard trimmed to respectable proportions, and his shirt was clean. The girl, forewarned, was awaiting them in the little parlour. She rose as the two men entered. Lesurge effected a simple introduction:
"Miss Ducane, this is your father's brother, Philip." For some moments they studied each other in silence, this slim, grave-eyed girl and the white-haired, wizened old man. It was the latter who spoke first.
"So you are George's little lass, eh?" he said, and the high-pitched voice was gentle. "You favour yore mother." Her face lighted up. "You knew her, sir?" she asked eagerly.
Snowy nodded. "She was a bonny gal--I never seen a purtier --till now," he added, with a little smile. "Must be twenty-five year ago--las' time I went East. I wanted George to jine me, but he'd just married an' bought that land at Dent's Crossing. Allus the plodder, George; I was the rollin' stone." Her eyes were moist. "And when he would have come ..."
"Paul told me," Snowy said sadly. "Pore of Squint--I expect they still called him that?"
"Yes, but he didn't mind."
"Got used to it, I reckon; but when I christened him that at school he gave me a fine hidin'. But he thought a lot o' me, George did, an' even when I near knocked his left eye out with a hoe he told Dad he fell off'n a fence to save me. Why didn't he answer my letter?"
"But he did," she protested. "A few weeks before he--died, he wrote saying he was selling the farm and coming to join you here." Snowy shook his head. "Guess it got lost, mails bein' as uncertain as females in these parts." He chuckled at his little joke. Unnoticed by the girl, Lesurge had tapped his own forehead. "Or mebbe I disremembered," he went on. "You see, my dear, some years back I had a bad sickness an' since then my memory plays me pranks. Times I even forget--" a warning shake of the head from the other man pulled him up--"my own name. I'm 'mowed here as Snowy, 'count o' my white hair. Some folks figure I'm loco, but you know that ain't so, don't you, Paul?"