CHAPTER XX--MURDER WILL OUT

Joe Hurley had lost none of his admiration for his college friend whom he had encouraged to come West. He still believed the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt was the very man to find the heart of Canyon Pass. Nor did events as they developed disprove his pre-judgment of the result of Hunt's coming.

But it must be confessed a sour note had come into the life of the owner of the Great Hope. He was a worker; he was energetic; he never under any circumstances neglected business--not even when he had been most attentive to Betty Hunt. But he now had little joy in his work and looked for recreation to a means he had eschewed for the most part since the Easterners had arrived.

Like most men of his class and upbringing, the ex-cow-puncher found satisfaction for a certain daring trait in his character at the gambling table. The coarser forms of pleasure in the honkytonks did not attract Joe Hurley. He danced occasionally with the better class of girls; he never drank more than he thought was good for him--and he carried his drink well; but when he "sat in" at a game of stud poker or went up against the wheel--roulette was popular with the Passonians--he admitted in his saner moments that he "didn't know when he had enough." The wild streak in the fellow showed through the veneer of repression as it had when he was in college.

Hunt could not feel as lenient now toward these escapades as he once had. Not alone had the Easterner's outlook on life become more serious; but after five years Joe Hurley, he thought, should have "grown up." He was, however, too wise to utter a single word in opposition to Joe's renewed course in moral retrogression. He took Sam Tubbs to task when he met that old reprobate staggering home from the saloons and gave him a tongue-lashing that Sam admitted afterward made his wife's nagging seem like a cradle lullaby. Hunt faced down Slickpenny Norris on the open street, to the delight of the bystanders, over the banker's niggardliness in opposing the building and equipment of the hospital. The parson had been known to seize upon two well-grown young fellows fighting in a vacant lot to the delight of their fellows, knock their heads together resoundingly and send each home "with a flea in his ear." But he had not a word of admonition it seemed for Joe Hurley.

Yet Hunt was troubled about his friend. He feared Betty knew something about the reason for the change in the mine owner. But here again he was silent. He knew his sister well--too well to try to gain her confidence on any matter which she would not give gratuitously.

Hunt had been much too busy at the time when Hurley began to withdraw from Betty's companionship to notice the gradual drifting apart of the two. When the brother awoke to the fact that his friend and his sister seemed to be mere acquaintances again, Betty had found a close companion in Nell Blossom.

Under certain circumstances this latter fact might have encouraged Hunt to consider his own influence with Nell as increasing; but by this time he had gained more than a casual acquaintance with the cabaret singer's character. Joe Hurley had not written too strongly about Nell's stubbornness. Hunt had undertaken in several ways to break down the wall the girl had raised between them. She fought him off with all the vigor of a wildcat and without much more politeness than one of those felines would have shown.

He met her at Mother Tubbs'--not by intention; but he was rather frequently there to confer with the uncultured but very sensible old woman. Nell snubbed him, or scorned him, or was downright impudent to him, just as her mood chanced to be. He had to warn the old woman to pay no attention to the girl's attitude or there would have been a flare-up between the two. And Hunt very well knew that while Nell lived with Mother Tubbs she was pretty safe.

He heartily approved, too, of her intimacy with Betty. He could not gauge the influence Betty was having on the self-willed girl; but he had confidence in his sister, and he knew Nell would only be helped by the association and that Betty would not be injured.

The opposition of Boss Tolley and his gang was the last thing to trouble the placidity of Parson Hunt's soul. They snapped and barked, but had as yet come to no close-quarters since Tolley's adventure with the pepper-besprinkled Bible. That tale had convulsed the Passonians with mirth, and even when weeks later it was retold, it brought ready laughs from the citizens.

It was now fall, a golden-and-red autumn that enthralled the visitors from the East when they looked abroad to the hills of a morning. Even Betty confessed that the glories of the Berkshires at the same season were surpassed by this sight. She had come now to appreciate the rude and bold lines of the mountains and the gaudy color schemes of frost-bitten shrubbery intermixed with the emerald of the _Coniferæ_.

The early brightening of the face of nature by these autumnal tints foretold for the natives of Canyon Pass an early winter. To make this assurance doubly sure, old Steve Siebert and Andy McCann came wandering back to the Pass weeks ahead of their scheduled time.

It was a fair enough day when the two old prospectors came in--McCann in the morning and Siebert along toward night. In all the time they had been absent, after getting out of the canyon itself, they had not been in sight of each other. One had prospected east of the Runaway, and the other west. Their activities in fact had been at least a hundred miles apart. But both had seen signs--unmistakable signs--of approaching winter.

They met as usual the amused inquiries of the Passonians regarding the "ten-strike" they had been expected to make. Was there due to be a stampede for the scene of the claims they had staked out? Had they brought in samples of the "real stuff" that would start a regular Cripple Creek boom somewhere out in the Topaz?

The two old men grinned, their watery eyes blinking, and "stood the gaff" as patiently as they always did. Why did they spend half the year in the ungodly loneliness of the desert places, and in the end bring nothing back with them? Not even an additional coating of tan, for their leathery faces and hands were already so darkened that the sun and wind had no effect upon them.

"You old duffers ain't right in your minds," said Judson to Andy McCann. "Just as loco as you can be. Ye never did make a strike and ye never will----"

"Lots you know about it, Bill," grumbled McCann, his jaws moving stiffly.

"Well, you never did, did you?" demanded the storekeeper, with twinkling eyes.

"If you were yere twenty years ago----"

"You know derned well I was, Andy," put in Judson. "Reckon I was. And before."

"You recommember the flood then?"

"I ain't lost my mem'ry," muttered Judson.

"All right. Keep _that_ in yer mind," said Andy, shaking his head in senile fashion. "There was a discovery made that year that you--nor nobody else in Canyon Pass--knowed anything about. Talk about the mother lode! Well!"

"Is that so?" cried the storekeeper eagerly. "Then why wasn't it worked? I knowed you and Steve brought in samples of the right stuff; but----"

"Steve," snarled McCann, his whole manner changing. "That derned rat? Him? He didn't have no more to do with findin' that vein----Huh! Huh!" He coughed, fell silent, went out of the store, deaf to any further questions.

It was Joe Hurley, standing with Hunt on Main Street, who was first to welcome Steve Siebert as he came along, riding his lean mare and towing the burro that looked as though it might have been carved rudely out of desert rock.

"Well, old-timer, I certainly am glad to see you," the mining man said. "What luck?"

"Oh, so-so," croaked the prospector.

"Ain't going to tell us you worked all summer just to get free air?" and Joe chuckled.

"Sumpin' like it," replied Siebert, and grinned toothlessly.

"You do beat my time! Goin' to come over to the Great Hope? There's a job for you."

"Mighty nice of you, Joe. I'll come," said the old man, nodding.

"And not a darn thing to show for all your pickin' and smellin' about the Topaz since spring?"

"Not what you'd call a bonanza."

"Youbetcha!" ejaculated Hurley. He turned with a grin to Hunt. "Meet Parson Hunt, Steve. We've done more in the Pass this summer than you have on the desert. We've got us a real parson, and we're aimin' to have a sure-enough church."

"That's a good word," agreed Steve solemnly, leaning to shake Hunt's hand. The old man's palm was as dry and scaly as a lizard's back. "There's a heap o' folks yere that need religion. I understand that derned Andy McCann's got back."

The gibe was obvious. Joe grinned with appreciation.

"Yep," he said. "And he hasn't got any more to show for his summer's work than you have."

"Him!" snarled Steve. "Of course he ain't. That dumb-head wouldn't find gold in the mint. No, sir! Never did find any----"

"I thought he did make a ten-strike once, but that the slide twenty years ago knocked his claim into a cocked-hat?"

"What? Him? Does he say so?" ejaculated Siebert, his wrinkled, tanned countenance flaming angrily.

"I heard tell," and Joe chuckled.

"He's a plumb liar. He didn't find any such thing. If there was any such discovery made in them days, it was me that done it. Youbetcha! But _him_! Huh! Anyway, it's all buried deeper 'n the Pit--take it from me," and, grumbling, Steve Siebert rode on.

"Believe me, Willie," said Hurley, "there's a case for you. Try to get those two together."

"These two old men are enemies?" asked Hunt quietly.

"That's no name for it. They hate each other as only two fellers can who once were the closest friends. Old Steve and Andy were once as close as twins. But they tell me for twenty years they have been snarling at and back-biting each other something scandalous. If you want to introduce love and kindness into the hearts of Canyon Pass folks, Willie, just give those two old ruffians a whirl."

He laughed--not the kind of laugh he would have uttered some weeks before. There was a sneering note in Joe Hurley's voice now when he spoke of Hunt's work and the better things of life. The parson noted it now as he had often noticed it of late, but he said nothing in comment at this time. He merely observed, before separating from Joe to return to the hotel for supper:

"Drop into the meeting room to-night, Joe. You haven't shown much interest in the Men's Club lately, and the work should have your approval. Besides, there are certain business matters that must be discussed at once."

"Well," said Joe gruffly.

He did not promise to attend. He did not attend.

"I wonder what kept Joe away?" Hunt ventured to Judson, as they, the last of the company, left the meeting room and the parson locked the door. That was never left unlocked since Nell Blossom's trick with Mother Tubbs' Bible. "I expected him to-night to give us his views on that matter."

The old storekeeper turned to him and grinned. "Joe's mighty busy, I reckon," he said.

"In the evening?"

"This evening, youbetcha!"

"In just what way, Judson? What's up your sleeve?"

"My funnybone," chuckled the storekeeper. "And I have to laugh. Just about once in so often Joe seems to lose ev'ry mite of sense he was born with. He thinks he can beat the man that got the first patent out on stud poker."

"Ah! I know Joe used to like cards. When he was East. But now----Is it as bad as you intimate, Judson?"

"Some worse, I'm free to say," declared the old man. "Joe's gone up against Colorado Brown's dealer, Miguel, several times lately. They get up a round game of a few fellers--all friends. But Miguel is always playin' for the house. He's a wonder. 'Last Card Mike' they sometimes call him. He seems to be able to read clean through the backs of any pack o' cards you put up to him. He's a wizard--no mistake."

"You mean that Joe is losing money in this game?" asked Hunt, with some apprehension.

"Me, I'd just as soon bet on flies with their shoes stuck in molasses as to play stud. Youbetcha!" returned Judson, with a chuckle.

Hunt separated from the storekeeper and walked slowly toward the Wild Rose. He passed Colorado's place; then he turned back. It is a matter of much moment for one man to interfere in another's private affairs, and no one realized this fact better than the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt. His office could not excuse any unasked advice or intervention in Hurley's chosen course, no matter how much Hunt desired to restrain his friend.

He hesitated again when he faced the swinging doors. There was not much noise inside. This was not a Saturday night and the amusement places along Main Street were not crowded. Most of the Passonians who wasted their money in the several places of this character spent it all and spent it quick. The mid-week nights were lean for the dive keepers.

It was not lack of courage that restrained Mr. Hunt from preaching a general revival and a bitter war against the cohorts of the devil in this town. Merely, the time was not yet ripe. Sometimes he feared that it never would be ripe. Certainly he had not yet reached the heart of Canyon Pass. Since the first shack had been built here at the junction of the two forks, the enemy had been in power; and it was now well entrenched.

But to-night Hunt was impressed by the feeling that his friend needed him. Joe was slipping away from him. For some unexplained reason the very man who had brought him here to the Pass and coaxed the idea of a spiritual uplift of the place into germination, was backsliding.

The parson began to feel that he could not stand by and see this thing go on. He pushed through the flaps of the door. He had seldom entered this, or any of the other saloons, in the evening.

His entrance now, however, did not serve to startle any of the habitués. Brown himself came forward to shake hands with the parson. Some of the players at the green-covered tables nodded to Hunt. The three-piece orchestra in the dance hall at the back was droning out a fox-trot. Nell was not singing. The principal interest seemed to be about a corner table at which the parson saw Joe Hurley sitting.

After a word to Brown in greeting, the parson walked over to this corner table and joined the group standing about it. Hurley looked up, grinned, and said:

"Hullo, Willie! Want me?"

"I've something to ask you--by and by, when you are done."

"Looks like an all-night session," returned Hurley, immediately giving his attention to the cards again. "Mike, here, is trying to skin me alive and the sheep is bleatin'. Deal 'em, Mike."

Hunt said nothing more; but he remained. By the grim set of Joe's lips and the silence of the company about the table, he knew that the moment was unpropitious for any insistence on his part that his friend give him his attention. Yet he had the feeling that something was going to happen, that his place was here at this gambling table rather than at the hotel with Betty.

The event that he subconsciously expected, however, came from outside. There was a sudden clamor at the door, the flaps swung in sharply, and several men entered. Smithy, Judson's gangling young clerk, was the most noticeable member of the new group. He had a cut over his right eye, a puff on his cheek-bone that could have been made by nothing but a heavy fist, and when he spoke a crimson gap in his upper jaw betrayed the absence of two teeth.

"What's happened to you, Smithy?" demanded Colorado Brown, coming forward quickly. It would not be to the benefit of the house to have the gamblers disturbed at this moment. "Somebody punch you?"

"I'll thay they did!" lisped Smithy. He was half sobbing, but he was mad clear through.

"They didn't improve your looks none," said Colorado.

"Never mind muh lookth," said Smithy. "I want to know what you fellers think of this?"

"I just told you. Whoever done it didn't make you any handsomer," interposed the proprietor of the hall. "Now, if you've had a fight outside, don't bring it in here. We're plumb peaceable here to-night, we are."

"Wait till you hear what the kid's got to say, Colorado," put in one of those that had entered with Smithy.

"Spit it out!" advised the proprietor.

"I want to know what Mr. Joe Hurley thinks of this?" Smithy managed to make plain. "What do you think they are saying about Nell Blossom?"

"Nell Blossom?"

Hurley's voice did not join the general chorus which repeated the cabaret singer's name. But he looked up, his gaze met that of the parson, and a lightning glance of understanding passed between them.

"What's eatin' on you, Smithy?" demanded Colorado Brown.

"Up in Tolley's. I was just in there. I heard Tolley and Tom Hicks and some others of his gang talkin'. I couldn't help hearin' what was said, and when I went for 'em this--this is what I got."

He almost choked on the words. Joe Hurley rose up as though a slow spring uncoiled beneath him.

"What did they say, Smithy?" he asked, and the tone of his voice seemed to quell all other sounds.

"Why, the skunks!" cried Smithy, "they said Nell Blossom shot Dick the Devil last spring and flung him over the wall of the canyon into Runaway River."