The Argosy, Volume XLIV — page 314: what you’re looking at

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

310 the surrounding hills began descending upon the town, and as night advanced the rattle of poker chips, the clink of glasses, the shuffle of feet timed to the strains of so-called music, and the hum of voices grew to a volume that rivaled the roar of the hundred pounding stamps a mile away. If revolver shots did not now and again pierce the din with their incisive echoes, a rule was broken more hon- ored in the observance than in the breach. To Cache d’Oro, then, on the night preceding the morning that saw Whip- ple arrive and depart from the cyanide works at the Golden lagle, came a gaunt, heavy-set man with a scraggling red beard and a pair of eyes that darted vigilantly behind and on all sides of him. The man’s clothes showed signs of contact with thorns and briars of the chaparral, wlile the flesh of his hands and face was cicatrized in count- less places and looked red and angry in the yellow lamplight. Ilis constantly shifting eyes were bloodshot, and his cheeks were sunken under their stubblv beard. His move- ments were stealthy, like those of a creeping wildcat, and once or twice his right hand might have been seen to leap to his hip under his torn coat and then nervously withdraw itself. A frayed silk handkerchief was tied about his throat, and beneath the hand- kerchief was a grimy bandage. It was not well with this man. Con- science did not trouble him—that had long ago been seared into harmless desuetude; but he had made himself a legal prey, and hunters of the law were stalking him. It is a fearful thing to be outlawed, to be beyond the pale of honest men, to find safety in continuous flight, expect- ing every moment to be brought to bay with your life in your hand. Identity is your consuming peril; sal- vation lies in being what you are not, which is an impossibility. Contact with your fellow man is dangerous, and yet you cannot shun him all the time. At intervals you must skulk out from vour secret places at the command of nature, which bids vou to eat and drink, or die. Even the immutable law that THE ARGOSY. sends you forth for the materials of life may result in disaster. Such a condition is wearing, and evi- dences of it were to be seen on the per- son of this man who had stolen into Cache d’Oro. The click of a door-latch gave him a start ; the shoving of a chair caused him to catch his breath; a sudden shout from those about him filled his dark soul with dread. He had walked the full length of the squalid street before he dared enter one of the drinking resorts. Once inside, he slouched stealthily to the bar and de- manded liquor. His very appearance bred suspicion, and the bectle-browed, thick-necked man behind the bar had to see the color of lis customer’s money before furnish- ing refreshment. The fiery contents of three glasses were tossed off in quick succession. As he gulped down the liquor the fugi- tive’s bloodshot eyes traveled about the large, low-ceiled room in an attempt to pierce the fog of tobacco smoke and take the measure of those around him. He was fairly spent and needed rest; but through the haze he saw, or im- agined he saw, a face turned in his di- rection and watching him suspiciously. Without losing a second, he retreated to the street, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder to make sure he was not followed. Ie had seen, or thought he had seen, that face before. Once out in the clearer and cooler atmosphere, he passed a hand over his forehead. Where was it, and when? Then, like a bolt of lightning the re- membrance came to him. It was near that camp of Cache d’Oro he had first encountered that face—in the night— there was shooting and a hand-to-hand strugele—his mask had been stripped away, and he had heen seen. Had the owner of the face recognized him now? The man began to run, but almost instantly slowed his pace to a walk. To run was to attract attention, the last thing he desired. Again he traversed the length of the street, not the less wary despite his careless air. No pursuit was attempted, of that he was sure. “Tt’s my cursed imagination,” he ECOMMIC OO CO