The Frontier, May 1926 — page 73: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

resented a certain, though small, sale value on account of the nearness to Hartnett and the rail head at Lamar; yet Toi-Yabe, always a firm believer in rich float gold as a certain index of the nearness of a mother lode—a the- ory which has made dozens of pros- pectors very rich, and thousands desti- tute—chose to ignore the $250 a ton rock and delve on the gambler’s chance. That evening, crouched with frying- pan and coffee pot before a small blaze of mesquite twigs, Toi-Yabe suddenly heard the click of steel on rock, the sounds of a shod horse approaching! With possible trouble stirred up by Haj Maddox foremost in mind, Toi- Yabe slid quickly from the firelight to the protection of a boulder, hands dropping to his six-guns. “Howdy!” came a hail in a tired voice. “’Sall right, hombre. It’s me —Stone Bellinger.” Undoubtedly that news would have been reassuring to many; Toi-Yabe was not certain that he welcomed it. He let the sheriff approach and dis- mount from his lathered roan, how- ever, and then emerged. “Wasn't sure,” he apologized gruffly. “Uh-huh,” acknowledged Stone, un- cinching. “Got enough water?” Toi-Yabe merely gestured at the narrow black aperture which housed his water cans and grubstake. Bel- linger investigated, poured a panful for the roan and a drink for himself. Then he slouched back to the fire, poured himself a cup of coffee, and ac- cepted the tin plate heaped with beans and bacon, tendered by Toi-Yabe, with a nod of acknowledgement. Such was desert hospitality given and taken by men almost a match in sternness and taciturnity. Toi-Yabe, realizing that the sheriff simply had chanced upon the claim at the end of a long ride and had grasped the chance to rest his horse, would not have spoken during the moments of smok- ing that followed except that he re- membered the curious find made that day. Reaching back of the boulder, he brought up the small roll of shoes and stockings he had discovered, and tossed them across the fire. “Ever see any yonkers up thisa- way?” he queried. “These was lyin’ here when I come back from town.” The officer unrolled the bundle. Then a frown gathered on his fore- head. Why, those things looked about big enough for his own kid—really something like the duds he’d seen on Dickie a few times! But of course there was no possible way Dickie could CHAPAREJOS get out here, he assumed. Besides his own son, however, Stone Bellinger strove in vain to recall any children this size in the region outside of a few Mexican babies down at Tres Casas, and these, of course, wore neither shoes nor stockings. “Yuh say yuh ain’t seen any party up this side of the Red Chalk?” he questioned, glancing keenly up through graying brows. He did not know or ask the name of his host; a shrewd judge of men was Stone Bellinger, a man who cared nothing for names or ready-made reputations. “Nope.” ‘Toi-Yabe’s answer was laconic, final. Bellinger considered. “Then I reckon I'll tote ’em along with me, in the mornin’,” he con- cluded. And he went to roll up in his blankets, without further ado. Next morning he was up in the false dawn’s graying, before Toi-Yabe, built a fire, fed and watered the roan, made the coffee, and prepared a sim- ple meal. Seeing that the prospector still slumbered—apparently only; Toi- Yabe was not altogether sure of the sheriff’s intentions—Stone ate quickly and in silence, then set the coffee pot on the dying embers, saddled, and rode away toward Golman’s Well. Toi- Yabe waited until the clicking of hoofs died away into silence before thrusting back a revolver into its holster and arising. He grinned a trifle wryly; a year before, it would have been court- ing sudden death for him to have camped a night with any sheriff! N HOUR later, with his drilling for a small blasting charge completed, Toi-Yabe affixed a cap and generous length of fuse to the sticks of forty per cent. He lighted the sputtering cord with its heart of black powder, then hastened over to the gully in which the animals were tethered. The burros could be counted on; they knew dynamite; but Cochise, the pinto pony, always snorted and reared, a wild, straining whiteness coming into his eyes. Only when Toi-Yabe was near could he be prevented from going into a nervous frenzy. Seconds elapsed. Then a satisfying grroommm! announced that the tamp- ing had been effective; that the force of the giant powder had been exerted downward, as well as in the direction of the shaft mouth. 63 As if that explosion had been an awaited signal, a sudden, faint pop- popping began, borne to Toi-Yabe seemingly from over the low mountain into which he was driving the shaft. He listened, tense, making certain that the gun battle—for the character of that fast shooting was unmistakable —was not in his valley, though proba- bly just beyond the ridge. Then he shrugged. It was none of his affair, He went hack to examine the shaft, bending to fan away the poisonous fumes with broad-brimmed Stetson before sliding down. A cursory glance was rather disap- pointing. The rock showed no marked change in character, being if anything a trifle more barren in appearance. But suddenly Toi-Yabe became quiet, crouched on one knee. He had heard a most curious sound, one which brought every desert trained faculty into play! A low, rushing murmur came to his ears! ; That instant he became aware, too, that a strange coolness was seeping in around his lowered knee and _ shin. Quickly he bent lower, testing with his ear, sniffing carefully. He heard it more plainly now. Water! He was near a subterranean stream or spring, that almost priceless discovery in this arid range! Water! If cool and sweet, it would allow him uwninter- rupted search for treasure, and com- fort beyond imagining! At last he found the tiny crevice through which a distinct chill of air rose in a steady current. With his ear to the crack he could hear the mur- muring rush of waters even more dis- tinctly. Feverishly then, forgetting for the time all thoughts of gold, he widened the crack, and into it thrust a prepared dynamite cartridge. Light- ing the fuse, he scrambled out and away. Such was his haste he did not glimpse a furtive, oddly clad little fig- ure on an abutment of rock just above. Thoroughly frightened, gasping for breath after his flight and climb to es- cape the terrible man who had snatched him from his bed before dawn that morning, Dickie Bellinger wanted to climb down and speak to the tall, lean prospector—but had been too much in the grip of terror. One of the safety pins had opened, allowing the top of his rough cut “chaps” to drag behind as he crawled on hands and knees, but he paid it no attention now. He wanted someone, anyone—even Old Torky would have been welcome. So he came closer to that funny hole where the big man had gone. (C(O) mG 6)(0)(6) KS COM