The door flew open and a furred and muffled figure strode in. It was Sharon—his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
Instantly Red was on his feet, hand twisting just above a gun. But Hal took no notice of him. He pushed his way to the bar.
"Boys," he said, "I named my claim the Golden Hope, and it was a true name! Boys, I've struck it rich!"
And he threw a double handful of nuggets and gold-dust on the bar.
On Christmas Eve Red stood in the door of an eating house and watched Sharon coming down the slope, whistling merrily. He had a right to be merry. He was already worth twelve thousand dollars and had not exhausted his claim by half. Red watched with hate in his eyes. Ever since the night Sharon had thrown his first gold on the bar, his hatred of the man had grown. Hal's fortune seemed a personal injury to Red. Had he not worked like a slave on that claim without getting a pound of gold? And here this stranger had come and gotten rich off that same claim! Thousands to him, a measly five hundred to Red. To Red's warped mind this assumed monstrous proportions—an outrage. He hated Sharon as he had never hated a man before. And, since with him to hate was to kill, he determined to kill Hal Sharon. With a curse he reached for a gun when a thought stayed his hand. The Vigilantes! They would get him sure if he killed Sharon openly. A cunning light came to his eyes and he turned and strode away toward the unpretentious boarding-house where he stayed.
Hal Sharon walked into the saloon.
"Seen Ghallinan lately?" he asked.
The bar-tender shook his head.
Hal tossed a bulging buck-skin sack on the bar.
"Give that to him when you see him. It's got about a thousand dollars worth of gold dust in it."
The bar-tender gasped. "What! You giving Red a thousand bucks after he tried to swindle you? Yes, it is safe here. Ain't a galoot in camp would touch anything belonging to that gun-fighter. But say—"
"Well," answered Hal, "I don't think he got enough for his claim; he practically gave it to me. And anyway," he laughed over his shoulder, "it's Christmas!"
II
MORNING in the mountains. The highest peaks touched with a delicate pink. The stars paling as the darkness grew grey. Light on the peaks, shadow still in the valleys, as if the paint brush of the Master had but passed lightly over the land, coloring only the highest places, the places nearest to Him. Now the light-legions began to invade the valleys, driving before them the darkness; the light on the peaks grew stronger, the snow beginning to cast back the light. But as yet no sun. The King had sent his couriers before him but he himself had not appeared.
In a certain valley, smoke curled from the chimney of a rude log cabin. High on the hillside, a man gave a grunt of satisfaction. The man lay in a hollow, from which he had scraped the drifted snow. Ever since the first hint of dawn, he had lain there, watching the cabin. A heavy rifle lay beneath his arm.
Down in the valley, the cabin door swung wide and a man stepped out. The watcher on the hill saw that it was the man he had come to kill.
Hal Sharon threw his arms wide and laughed aloud in the sheer joy of living. Up on the hill, Red Ghallinan watched the man over the sights of a Sharps .50 rifle. For the first time he noticed what a magnificent figure the young man was. Tall, strong, handsome, with the glow of health on his cheek.
For some reason Red was not getting the enjoyment he thought he would. He shook his shoulders impatiently. His finger tightened on the trigger—suddenly Hal broke into song; the words floated clearly to Red.
"Hark the Herald Angels Sing!"
Where had he heard that song before? Then suddenly a mist floated across Red Ghallinan's eyes; the rifle slipped unnoticed from his hands. He drew his hand across his eyes and looked toward the east. There, alone, hung one great star and as he looked, over the shoulder of a great mountain came the great sun.
"Gawd!" gulped Red, "why—it is Christmas!"
Drums of the Sunset
Table of Contents
1. THE WANDERER
2. MYSTERY
3. THE GIRL'S STORY
4. A TRAIL OF BLOOD
5. THUNDERING CLIFFS
1. THE WANDERER
Table of Contents
"Now, come all you punchers, and listen to my tale,
"When I tell you of troubles on the Chisholm Trail!"
STEVE HARMER was riding Texas-fashion, slow and easy, one knee hooked over the saddle horn, hat pulled over his brows to shade his face. His lean body swayed rhythmically to the easy gait of his horse.
The trail he was following sloped gradually upward, growing steeper as he continued. Cedars flanked the narrow path, with occasional pinons and junipers. Higher up, these gave place to pines.
Looking back, Steve could see the broad level country he had left, deeply grassed and sparsely treed. Beyond and above, the timbered slopes of the mountains frowned. Peak beyond peak, pinnacle beyond pinnacle they rose, with great undulating slopes between, as if piled by giants.
Suddenly behind the lone rider came the clatter of hoofs. Steve pulled aside to let the horsemen by, but they came to a halt beside him. Steve swept off his broad-brimmed hat.
There were two of the strangers, and one was a girl. To Steve she seemed strangely out of place, somehow, in this primitive setting. She sat her horse in an unfamiliar manner and her whole air was not of the West. She wore an Eastern riding habit—and then Steve forgot her clothes as he looked at her face. A vagrant curl, glinting gold in the sun, fell over her white forehead and from beneath this two soft grey eyes looked at him. Her full lips were half parted—
"Say, you!" a rough voice jarred Steve out of his daydreams.
The girl's companion was as characteristically Western as she was not. He was a heavily built man of middle life, thickly bearded and roughly clad. His features were dark and coarse, and Steve noted the heavy revolver which hung at his hip.
This man spoke in a harsh, abrupt manner.
"Who're you and where do you reckon you're goin'?"
Steve stiffened at the tone. He shot a glance at the girl, who seemed rather pale and frightened.
"My name's Harmer," said he, shortly. "I'm just passin' through."
"Yeah?" the bearded lips parted in a wolfish grin. "I reckon, stranger, you done lost your way—you shoulda took that trail back yonder a ways that branched off to the south."
"I ain't said where I was goin'," Steve responded, nettled. "Maybe I have reason for goin' this way."
"That's what I'm thinkin'," the bearded man answered, and Steve sensed the menacing note in his voice. "But you may have reason for takin' the other trail yet. Nobody lives in these hills, and they don't like strangers! Be warned, young feller, and don't git into somethin' you don't know nothin' about."
And while Steve gaped at him, not understanding, the man flung a curt order to the girl, and they both sped off up the trail, their horses laboring under the stress of quirt and spur. Steve watched in amazement.
"By golly, they don't care how they run their broncs uphill. What do you reckon all that rigamarole meant? Maybe I oughta taken the other trail, at that—golly, that was a pretty girl!"
The riders disappeared on the thickly timbered slope and Steve, after some musing, nudged his steed with his knee and started on.
"I'm a goin' West and punch Texas cattle!
"Ten dollar horse and forty dollar saddle."
Crack! A sharp report cut through the melody of his lazy song. A flash of fire stabbed from among trees further up the slope. Steve's hat flew from his head, his horse snorted and reared, nearly unseating his rider.