Part 11

It then developed that with one or two exceptions all of those who had disappeared had left Whooping Hollow for Sandy Bar, the nearest mining-camp, sixty miles distant, and to which there was only one possible trail over the divide. That the parties had been murdered was now conceded; but upon whom could suspicion rest? and where on the lonely route were the damnable deeds committed? These were the questions discussed one evening by half a dozen prominent men of Whooping Hollow, who had secretly met in a room about a week after Jemuel Knaggs failed to return at the appointed time. He was last seen on the day of his departure from town by some reputable miners, who had met and conversed with him on the trail to Sandy Bar, not more than twelve miles from his home. He had never arrived at Sandy Bar, however; that fact was ascertained to a certainty through diligent inquiry there. It was only a small camp of less than three hundred people, and he was as well known there as in Whooping Hollow.

About half-way between Whooping Hollow and Sandy Bar there was a narrow, rocky valley, known as Willow Springs Gulch; abandoned long ago as a mining region, the ore in that vicinity having consisted of a series of small "pockets" only, which were naturally exhausted in less than six months from the date of their discovery, and that was more than two years before operations had begun in Whooping Hollow. But the place was still famous for its pure water, which gushed out of the indurated wall of a small cañon in a stream as large as a man's arm--clear, cold and sparkling; the best water to be found in the whole sixty miles' ride. The entrance to the rocky cañon was almost concealed by a dense growth of mountain willows; hence the name. But the beautiful spring was the only redeeming feature in the otherwise barren and desolate landscape. Near this lonely spot stood a small adobe cabin, or rather hut, the only habitation anywhere within twenty miles of the dreary place. Its sole occupant was a miner, ostensibly, who pretended to own a claim near Sandy Bar, but it was alleged that no one ever saw him work it; yet he always apparently had sufficient money to supply his wants, ever paying gold for his purchases. He was a tall, angular, villainous-looking specimen of humanity; rough, illiterate, dialectic in his talk, but possessing the physique of a giant, as courageous as a she-grizzly with cubs, a dead shot with the revolver, and withal believed by every one to be a desperado in the most rigid acceptation of the term. Viewed superficially--for nobody at Whooping Hollow or Sandy Bar knew anything about his antecedents--he was apparently without one redeeming quality, except that he was kind to his dog, a mangy, spotted, wicked-looking yellow cur, with only one eye, and tailless--fit companion for such a surly-disposed master. This strangely mysterious being, with whom no one had any more intercourse than was absolutely necessary, and that confined to the limited conversation required when he entered stores to make purchases, lived a supremely isolated sort of an existence, for he was as carefully avoided by every one as were the rattlesnakes that infested the rocky arroyos of the bald bleak hills where his hut was located. Upon him, then, black suspicion naturally at once fell--so prone is human nature to be guided by visible forms; though there was not an inkling of proof, either circumstantial or direct, upon which to base this man's guilt.

Fortunately, they who were quietly investigating the cause of the disappearance of Jemuel Knaggs were men of excellent judgment; cool, calm and deliberate in their proceedings, but terribly in earnest. They had received their education in the great "school of the world": they knew that suspicions were not facts; that appearances are too often deceiving; and they were nonplussed because convincing proof was not forthcoming to convict the only man upon whom a shadow of probable guilt could fall.

This strange creature, about whom nobody knew anything, was called, whenever reference to him became necessary (often now, for he was in everyone's thought a murderer), "Willow Gulch Jack," because his real name was not ever known--adopting the Indian's method of nomenclature and associating him with his locality. It may readily be inferred that it was only his villainous aspect and isolated life that brought this wholesale condemnation upon him, for he had never been guilty of any disreputable act that the people could discover, and now they left no stone unturned to find something against him; but they avoided and suspected him as a sheep-raiser does a strange cur in his neighborhood. Consequently a system of espionage was inaugurated on his movements, but nothing, as yet, had been discovered to cast a shadow on his every-day life. He knew that he was suspected and watched; so, for some special reason which had not yet been made clear to the people of Whooping Hollow, he was now almost constantly absent from home, passing his time on the trail between his cabin and the top of the divide above the town, always accompanied by the one-eyed, tailless dog, his constant companion. His enemies were aware of his perambulations, but could not divine the cause, and the mystery connected with his isolated life seemed to them more impenetrable than ever. Of course they did not hound his every footstep, because, as they reasoned, that would give him no opportunity to commit himself; they merely adopted such precautionary measures as would prevent his escape from the country, and that would permit them to arrest him at any time they wanted to if he attempted to leave, or whenever they had gathered sufficient proof to convict him, which as yet seemed as remote as ever--flattering themselves all the while that he was unconscious of their intentions.

One day, about two weeks after the investigation of the cause of the disappearance of Jemuel Knaggs had been fairly inaugurated, this Willow Gulch Jack, as I shall have to call him in the absence of the knowledge of his real name, rode quietly into Whooping Hollow, dismounted, tied his mule to a stump in front of Tom Bradford's log cabin, walked up to the door, gave it a heavy kick, and waited until it was opened--his cur, at a word from his master, lying down close to the mule.

Tom Bradford was a veteran miner, one of the best citizens Whooping Hollow possessed, whose opinions on important matters were generally regarded as conclusive--such faith the curiously assorted people of the town placed in his excellent judgment, which fact Jack was fully aware of. Bradford himself came out on the porch in response to Jack's tremendous knock, but when he saw who his visitor was, a shade of evident displeasure passed over his countenance--for he too, although he knew that not a scintilla of proof had been forthcoming after all these days of investigation, believed in this man's guilt. Tom Bradford regarded Jack intently for a moment, as if wondering what to say or do, so astonished was he at his presence; but Jack broke the painful silence in a few words:

"I say, Tom Bradford," (nobody was "mistered" out there in those days,) "I hev kim ter talk ter ye. I knows this hyar's onexpected, but I don't keer, an' w'at I hev ter tell I wants ter tell ye whar no one kin har we-uns. Hev yer sich a place whar we-uns kin converse ondisturbed?"

Bradford eyed Jack closely for a few seconds--not that he had any fear of the man, villainous as he looked, and giant that he was--then told him to follow as he led the way through the cabin door. They passed out of one room into another at the rear (there were only two apartments in the building), where he pushed a dilapidated rush-bottomed chair toward Jack, himself taking another, and, throwing his feet upon a rickety table, the only other article of furniture in the rude log den, he pulled his pipe out of his pocket, filled it, lighted it, and handed another to Jack with the tobacco from a box nailed against the wall within easy reach. He gave a few vigorous pulls at his own, emitting a cloud of smoke that almost enveloped him, then, fixing his eyes on his unwelcome visitor, said:

"Now then, I'm ready to hear what you have got to communicate."

"Tom Bradford," began Jack upon this invitation, "I knows thet I hev been 'spected of these hyar murders w'at hev tuk place; an' I knows thet I hev been hounded an' watched, which you-uns hed no idee I knowed; but ye knows, Tom Bradford, thar haint er shadder kin be proved agin me."

"I am aware of that," said Bradford, hurriedly; "and although you are and have been the only man in the mines suspected, we folks here are determined that no innocent person shall suffer upon mere suspicion and under the excitement of the moment; we are also determined that no guilty party--or parties, if there should be more than one person implicated--shall escape the swift, summary punishment the hellish acts deserve. We have no organized courts here, but organize them as we need them ourselves. No mere technicality will save a rascal either, as it does sometimes in what are called civilized communities."

"Tom Bradford," continued Jack, "you nor no one else hez ever seen me a-loafin' roun' saloons, nor gamblin'-hells; an' no one hain't never seen me drunk nuther--hev they? I knows my looks is agin me; but looks hain't nothin', nor no judge ter go by. I hain't no harnsome man--never sot any claim ter sich. I oncet tuk ther prize fer grinnin' through a hoss-collar, at er county fair way back in old Kaintuk, w'en I war young."

At this admission a change that was evidently intended for a smile suddenly crept over Jack's face as he opened his ponderous jaws; but the effect made his cavernous mouth, which literally stretched from ear to ear, look as if it had been made by a broadax at a blow.

"Waal," he continued, as the paroxysm caused by the remembrance of his youth passed off, "I hev been doin' some _de_tective work myself; an' w'at I hev diskivered is w'at hez brung me hyar ter talk ter ye 'bout. It war all a accident, though; an' ef it hedn't 'a' been fer thet thar ornery dorg o' mine, I wouldn't er foun' out nothin'. You-uns'll all be surprised ez I wuz, w'en ye kim ter larn who ther murd'rer for sartin is. In ther fust place, I knowed them folkses ez war missin' never got pas' my cabin"----

Bradford looked Jack suddenly in the eye, as if to catch the true meaning of his last assertion; but Jack, seeing that he was misunderstood, became a little heated, and in a most emphatic manner said:

"Never reached thar, Tom Bradford, ez I wants ye ter onderstand! Now I wants yer ter tell me," he continued, getting more excited, "how many cabins--whar folkses lives, I means; 'course thar's lots o' 'bandoned ones--'twixt Whoopin' Holler an' mine?"

"Well," replied Bradford, in response to Jack's interrogatory, "there are but two--Cal. Jones's and Ike Podgett's. Why?"

"Don't yer see, Tom Bradford, ef them ez is missin' never got ter my cabin, they never got by one o' them t'others?"

"What do you mean?" asked Bradford, looking up excitedly into Jack's face.

"I means jes' w'at I says," replied Jack, gazing as earnestly now into Bradford's. "Ef er man leaves Whoopin' Holler fer Sandy Bar, he kain't git offen ther trail, kin he? Thar hain't but one trail, is thar? An' ef he don't kim back, an' don't go ahead, he mus' 'a' stopped somewhar 'twixt ther two places, mus'n't he? An' ef he haint heerd of fer a long while, he mus' hev stopped fer good, eh? Now do yer understan', Tom Bradford?" and Jack emphasized his remarks by bringing down his huge fist like a sledgehammer on top of the rickety old table right in front of Bradford.

Tom Bradford smiled at Jack's earnestness, and looking him squarely in the eyes, said:

"Why, you must be insane, man! Cal. Jones's cabin is right on the highest point of the divide. If you were out on my porch, you could see it from here. You ain't crazy enough to suppose that a murder could be committed at such an exposed place, and everybody in town not know it in ten minutes? And as for Ike Podgett--ha! ha! ha! Ike Podgett! why, man, Ike Podgett is one of our best citizens; one of the most enterprising men in the place; always has plenty of money; spends it freely, too. To be sure he gambles some, and drinks. Who don't? They are mighty few--you know that. He don't come to town very often; stays at home a good deal; but then, he's got a fine paying claim, and works it for all there is in it; at least that is what he tells all of us here in town. Ike Podgett--ha! ha! ha! That's a good one, I swear!"

Jack's eyes snapped as Bradford laughed in his face. He was getting mad at the manner in which his statements were being received; he grew very red, and blurted out:

"Ike Podgett hain't home now, is he?"

"No," answered Bradford; "he's gone bear-hunting with a lot of the boys; been gone several days; won't be back for a week yet; they were going as far as the Spanish Peaks."

"His'n is er mighty lonesome place, hain't it?" queried Jack.

"Yes," answered Bradford, "a mighty lonesome place. I don't see how he can live there--such a rocky, dark cañon--hardly a ray of sunlight enters there until late in the afternoon. But he says he loves solitude, and don't like neighbors too near"--

"I'm his closest, I reckon," interrupted Jack again.

"I believe you are," replied Bradford.

"He's married, though, hain't he, to a Spanish woman?--on'y a child, 'pears ter me; I've seed her oncet or twicet."

"He's got a woman out there with him--don't know whether she's his wife or mistress. We folks here don't bother our heads about such matters; it's none of our business; she's Mexican, though," answered Bradford. "But why," continued he, impatient and disgusted with the interview's length, "why do you ask these ridiculous questions? I have no time to waste!" He then petulantly rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, evidently tired, and determined to end the matter right there and get rid of his annoying visitor.

"'Cause, Tom Bradford," slowly and solemnly replied Jack, at the same time getting up from his chair, too; and putting his mouth close to Bradford's ear, he hoarsely whispered:

"'Cause Ike Podgett is the murderer of Jemuel Knaggs, anyhow, an' w'y not o' all the t'others ez is missin'?"

"My God, man! what do you mean?" excitedly asked Tom Bradford, suddenly wheeling around and placing both of his hands on Jack's shoulders.

"Tom Bradford, I mean 'zac'ly w'at I kin prove; an' ter tell this hyar is w'at hez brung me ter this hyar cabin."

"Hold on!" cried Bradford, violently agitated; "you must prove it, must tell all you know; but in the presence of others. Wait--sit down here--I'll be back directly, and bring some one with me. Wait!" and Bradford rushed out into the street in a terrible state of excitement.

He returned in less than twenty minutes in company with a short, thick-set, grizzly veteran miner, a man about sixty years of age. This was old man Bartlett--better known, however, and generally accosted as "Judge," because he had so frequently presided over the locally instituted courts in the diggings everywhere he had been during his long career in the mountains and on the Plains. He was regarded by everybody as the most level-headed, honest and discreet man in the whole Range. In fact, that had been his reputation wherever he had traveled, following him in all his erratic wanderings since his advent in the Far West, forty years before he turned up in Whooping Hollow. He had "whacked bulls" on the old Santa Fé trail; had lived for months on hardtack and bacon in the mountains of California; had nearly starved to death on the sage-bush plains of Nevada; had been captured by Apaches in Arizona, but was rescued by a detachment of United States dragoons just in time to escape the torture of the stake, the fires for which were already lighted; and years before all these strange experiences, had "filibustered" with Walker in Nicaragua. Altogether, he had seen as eventful a life as ever fell to the fortune of one man.

When the two men entered the little barren log room where Jack was, they found him sitting at its only window, his number twelve feet on the broad sill, pulling vigorously at the clay pipe that Bradford in his rough hospitality had originally provided him with, blowing great rings of smoke out of his huge mouth as he sat there as imperturbable as a rock. He greeted Bartlett with a short "Howdy, Jedge," and then resumed his pipe, waiting for him or Bradford to open the conversation.

Old Sam pulled an enormous plug of navy tobacco from his hip pocket, tore off a liberal portion with his teeth, rolled the immense quid over in his mouth several times, and then, looking earnestly at Jack as if to measure him in his mind, said:

"Jack, Bradford's been telling me some mighty queer stories. Ike Podgett a murderer? I don't believe a word of it. He," jerking his thumb toward Bradford, "wanted me to come over and hear your statement, which I agreed to; but I tell you beforehand, the proofs will have to be clear as Holy Writ to convince me that Ike Podgett knows what has become of Jemuel Knaggs any more than me and Tom here does."

"The Judge" was not always a rigid follower of the rules laid down by Lindley Murray in the construction of his sentences, therefore frequently got the cases of his pronouns mixed, although he was a college graduate; but he generally talked fairly correctly.

"Let's hear your story," continued he; "tell us what you know, and how you know, as you have asserted to Bradford that Ike Podgett killed Jemuel Knaggs."

"Waal," commenced Jack, leaving his place at the window, rising to his full height, stretching out his long arms, giving a tremendous yawn as he did so; then moving his chair to the end of the table between the two men, who had seated themselves on opposite sides, their feet of course on top, where, resting his elbows on it, his immense paws supporting his shaggy head, Jack looked his interlocutor squarely in the eyes, and continued:

"Waal, yer knows, sence I war satisfied that I war a-bein' watched an' hounded an' 'spected by you-uns hyar in Whoopin' Holler, I 'lowed ter myself thet I would do a leetle _de_tective work on my own 'count--ez I hev told Bradford hyar. So I gits onto my mule, tuks Jupe--thet's thet thar yaller, no-'count, ornery dorg o' mine--an' we jes' nat'rally comminces ter prowl thet thar trail from t'other side o' Ike Podgett's 'twixt thar an' ther Holler, fer more'n er week. But we-uns didn't see nothin' 'spicious till day afore yisterday, 'long in ther shank o' ther evenin'. Then I war ridin' by Podgett's place--Jupe hed run 'way 'head o' me--I war goin' toler'ble slow an' thinkin' powerful; an' w'en I got clos't ter ther cabin, I seed thet thar fool dorg o' mine er diggin' an' er pawin' et suthin' he hed unyearthed. Ther no-'count cuss is always hungry an' always huntin' fer suthin ter eat. Then ez I obsarved thar warn't no one ter home, I gits down offen my mule, hitches him, an' lights out fer ther r'ar o' ther cabin whar ther dorg war, ter see w'at he war so consarned 'bout; an' w'en I reached thar, gentlemin, et war a human leg and foot. An' stoopin' down, I picked this hyar outen ther dirt ther dorg hed pawed up!"

Getting up from his seat as he said this, Jack pulled out of the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt a little mass of iron pyrites, an octahedrite in shape--a rare form of that common combination of iron and sulphur--which was drilled onto a plate of gold, making it a perfect but unique collar-button.

"Great God!" exclaimed Bartlett and Bradford simultaneously, as they both jumped up excitedly at the sight of the trinket Jack held in his hand.

Tom Bradford gave vent to his feelings first. Slapping his fist on the table, and then pointing his finger at Jack, who stood as calm as a statue, said vehemently:

"Judge Bartlett, either this man's story is true, or he is the murderer himself!"

"Great God!" reiterated Bartlett, putting his hand to his head in his evident bewilderment; "Bradford--I don't know--I'm completely dumbfounded! Everybody in the mines knows that collar-button. There's not another one like it in the mountains. Knaggs always wore it at the neck of his flannel shirt. He's told me many a time that he'd refused $50 for it. This matter must be thoroughly investigated."

He then reached for the button, which Jack promptly handed to him, and which he examined carefully for a few moments in silence, sitting down for that purpose. Then turning suddenly to Jack, who--now conscious that he had at least caused Bradford and Bartlett to believe that he might be innocent, and that his story might be true--had resumed his seat, and was coolly filling his pipe again, the old Judge asked him:

"Jack, did you leave the leg and foot where the dog found it, or what did you do with it?"

"I left it thar," replied Jack, "but I kivered it up agin; an' I stomped ther groun' down 'roun' it so ez it looked like it hed n't been tech'd. Then I went ter my cabin; then I kim hyar ter Bradford's. Ther on'y thing I brung 'way war thet button, an' fer which I'll thank yer ter gin me ag'in. I wants to keep it er while yit!"

Bartlett hesitated a moment, rolling over in his fingers the mute evidence of a crime committed; looked at Bradford interrogatively, who nodded significantly, and then he handed the curious object back to Jack.

"Thank ye, gentlemin," said he, as he put it carefully into his pocket again; "I'm et yer sarvice et any time, and so is this hyar button w'en ye wants it; an' I hopes you-ns means ter 'vestigate this hyar matter ter oncet. Ike Podgett's 'way now, an' w'en he kims back it's mebby too late."

Bartlett and Bradford consulted aside in a low tone for a few moments; then walking back to the table where Jack was still sitting, pulling at his pipe, and almost invisible because of the smoke, the old Judge said:

"Jack, this is a strange piece of business, and we are both staggered. Yet we are not unreasonable; we know that nothing is more deceptive than a man's estimate of human nature; it seems mighty hard to come to your way of thinking; but we all may have been most terribly deceived in Ike Podgett. We will examine his premises and investigate the matter to the end. Now we want you to go quietly out to your cabin from here; say nothing to anyone about what you have told us. To-night we will discuss, with some of our best citizens, what is best to be done; and to-morrow meet us at Podgett's. If we arrive there first we will wait right on the trail for you, and take no action before you come; but if you get to the place before we do, wait for our party. Don't go near the cabin and don't touch a thing, and then nobody can raise any suspicions of a job, which some of Podgett's friends might accuse you of. We will try to be there by eleven o'clock, and that will allow you ample time to reach there as soon as that hour too."

The old Judge having finished his instructions and warnings, the three men went out of the cabin and separated. Jack mounted his mule, whistled to Jupe, and rode slowly up the steep divide into the hills, where he was soon lost to sight. Bartlett and Bradford walked down to the main street, their feelings wonderfully affected, and entered the little building that did duty as the postoffice for Whooping Hollow and surrounding mining-camps, to look up the proper persons with whom to consult concerning the terrible revelations of a few moments before.