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CHAPTER XIX
A FINANCIAL TRANSACTION

Scipio was washing clothes down at the creek. So much had happened to him that day, so many and various had been the emotions through which he had passed, that there was only one thing left him to do. He must work. He dared not sit down and think. Hard physical labor was what he required. And the rubbing out of the children’s small clothes, and his own somewhat tattered garments, became a sort of soothing drug which quieted his troubled mind, and lulled his nerves into a temporary quiescence. The children were with him, playing unconcernedly upon the muddy banks of the creek, with all the usual childish zest for anything so deliciously enticing and soft as liquid river mud.

Vada had forgotten her journey of that morning, it had quite passed out of her little head in the usual way of such trifling unpleasantnesses which go so frequently to make up the tally of childhood’s days. Jamie had no understanding of it. His Vada was with him again, hectoring, guiding him as was her wont, and, in his babyish way, he was satisfied.

As for Scipio he gave no sign of anything. He was concentrating all his mental energies on the work in hand, thus endeavoring to shut out memory which possessed nothing but pain for him. Every now and then a quick, sidelong glance in the children’s direction kept him informed of their doings and safety, otherwise his eyes were rarely raised from the iron bath, filled to the brim with its frothing suds.

Striding down the slope from the hut where he had come in search of Scipio, this was the picture Wild Bill discovered. The little yellow-headed man was standing in the midst of a small clearing in the bushes, a clearing long since made for the purposes of his wife’s weekly wash. His back was turned, and his small figure was bowed over the tub in front of him. Every bush around him was decorated with clothes laid out on their leafy surfaces, where the sun could best operate its hygienic drying process. He saw the bobbing heads of the mudlarking children a few yards away where the low cut-bank hid their small bodies from view. And somehow an unusual pity stirred his hard, world-worn heart.

And yet no one could have called him a sentimental man. At least, no one who knew his method of life. How would it be possible to gild a man with humane leanings who would sit in to a game at poker, and, if chance came his way, take from any opponent his last cent of money, even if he knew that a wife and children could be reduced to starvation thereby? How could a kindliness of purpose be read into the acts of a man who would have no scruple in taking life, under provocation, without the least mercy or qualm of conscience? He displayed no tenderness, he hated what he considered such weakness. It was his studied practice to avoid showing consideration for others, and he would have bitterly resented those who considered him. He preferred that his attitude towards the world should be one of unyielding selfishness. Such was the game of life as he understood it.

Yes, honestly enough, he hated sentiment, and for this very reason he cursed himself bitterly that such a feeling as he now experienced should so disturb him. He hurried down the slope a shade quicker than there was any necessity for. And it was as though he were endeavoring to outstrip the feelings which pursued him.

Scipio heard him coming, and glanced round quickly. When he beheld his visitor he nodded a greeting and continued his work. In his heart was a curious feeling towards the gambler. He could not have described it. It was too complicated. He liked Wild Bill. He felt that for some indefinite reason he was his friend. Yet he resented him, too. He did not know he resented him. Only he felt that this man dominated him, and he was forced to obey him against his will. At sight of him his mind went back to the events of that morning. He thought of Bill’s promise, and a curious excitement stirred within him. He wondered now what this visit portended.

For once the gambler did not display his usual readiness. He did not speak for some moments, but took up a position whence he could see the children at their play, and best watch the little washerman, on whom he intended to thrust a proposition that had been revolving in his mind some time. He chewed his tobacco steadily, while his expression went through many changes. At last he drew his shaggy brows together and eyed his victim with shrewd suspicion.

“Say, you’re kind o’ smart, ain’t you?” he demanded harshly.

The other looked up with a start, and his mildly inquiring glance should have convinced the most skeptical to the contrary. But apparently it had no such effect on his visitor.

“I’d never ha’ tho’t it,” Bill went on coldly. “To look at you one ’ud sure think you was that simple a babby could fool you. Howsum,” he sighed, “I don’t guess you ken never rightly tell.”

A flush began to warm Scipio’s cheeks. He couldn’t understand. He wondered hard, vainly endeavoring to grasp wherein he had offended.

“I–I don’t get you,” he said, in a bewildered fashion, dropping the garment he was washing back into the soapsuds.

Bill’s expression underwent another change as he caught at the words.

“You don’t get me?” he said ironically. “You don’t get me?” Then he shrugged as though he was not angry, but merely deplored the other’s unsuspected cunning. “You can’t strike it rich an’ guess you’re goin’ to blind folks. I’d say it needs every sort of a man to do that around these parts.”

Scipio gasped. He had no other feeling than blank astonishment.

“I ain’t struck it rich,” he protested.

And his denial was received with a forced peal of laughter.

“Say, you’re a heap shrewd,” cried Bill, when his laugh had subsided. “I’d say you’re jest about slick. Gee! Wal, I can’t blame you any fer holdin’ your face shut. Ther’s a mint o’ dollars ken drop out of a feller’s mouth through an unnatteral openin’. Ef you’d got busy gassin’, it’s a million dollar bet all the folks around this lay-out ’ud be chasin’ you clear to death. Say, it’s right, though? There’s chunks of it stickin’ right out, fine, yaller, dandy gold. An’ the quartz bank cuttin’ down wider an’ wider?”

But Scipio shook his head. His bewilderment had gone, and in place of it was sad conviction.

“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet. I ain’t seen it, anyway. I sure think there’s gold in plenty on that claim. I know there is,” he added, with unusual force, his pulses beginning to quicken, and a sudden hope stirring. Bill’s accusation was aiding the effect. “But it ain’t on the surface. It sure ain’t.”

He stood wondering, all his washing forgotten in this newly raised hope so subtly stirred by the gambler. Had someone else discovered what he had missed for so long? He hadn’t been near his claim for some days. Had someone–?

“Who says about the gold?” he demanded, with sudden inspiration.

“The folks.”

The gambler passed the point without committing himself.

Scipio shook his head, puzzling. Something must surely have transpired, and yet–

“You got me beat, Bill. You have, sure.” The smile that accompanied his words was good to see. But somehow the gambler found the far horizon of more interest just then.

“You’re a wide one all right,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s no gettin’ upsides with you. Give me them quiet, simple sort o’ fellers every time. They got the gas machine beat so far you couldn’t locate him with a forty-foot microscope. Gee!” He chuckled, and turned again to contemplate his companion, much as he would a newly discovered wonder of the world.

But poor Scipio was really becoming distressed. He hoped, merely because the other forced him to hope, by his own evident sincerity. But the charge of shrewdness, of conspiring to keep a secret he had never possessed, worried him.

“I take my oath I don’t know a thing, Bill,” he declared earnestly. “I sure don’t. You’ve got to believe me, because I can’t say more. I seen my claim days back, an’ I hadn’t a color. I ain’t seen it since. That’s fact.”

It was strange to see how readily the disbelief died out of the other’s face. It was almost magical. It was as though his previous expression had been nothing but acting and his fresh attitude the result of studied preparation.

“Well, Zip,” he said seriously, almost dejectedly, “if you put it that way, I sure got to b’lieve you. But it’s queer. It sure is. There’s folks ready to swear ther’s rich gold on your claim, an’ I’ll tell you right here I come along to git in on it. Y’see, I’m a bizness man, an’ I don’t figger to git a crop o’ weeds growin’ around my feet. I sez to myself, I sez, directly I heerd tell, ‘Here’s Zip with an elegant patch o’ pay dirt, an’ here am I with a wad of bills handy, which I’d sure like to turn over some.’ Then I sez–I want you to understand jest how I thought–I sez,‘Mebbe I’ve kind o’ bin useful to Zip. Helped him out some, when he was fixed awkward.’ You see, it ain’t my way to do things for nothing. An’ I do allow I bin useful to you. Well, I thought o’ these things, so I come along right smart to get in on the plum. Sez I, ‘Zip, bein’ under obligation to me some, mebbe he’ll let me buy ha’f share in his claim,’ me handin’ him a thousand dollars. It ’ud be a spot cash deal, an’ me puttin’ in a feller to work–an’ see things right fer me–why, I guess there’d be no chance o’ you gettin’ gay–an’ fakin’ the output. See? I don’t guess you’re on the crook, but in bizness a feller don’t take chances. Y’see I’m pretty bright when it gits to bizness, an’, anyway, I don’t stand fer no play o’ that kind. Get me?”

The gambler’s manner was wholly severe as he explained his proposition, and impressed his views of business. Scipio listened without the slightest umbrage. He saw nothing wrong, nothing unfriendly in the precautions the other had intended to take. As a matter of fact, the one thing that concerned him was the disappointment he must cause him.

“There’s nothing like straight talk, Bill,” he said, cordially. “I allus like straight talk. You kind of know just where you are then. There’s not a doubt you’ve been real good to me,” he went on, with evident feeling, “and I’ll never be able to forget it–never. I tell you right here, if there was anything in the world I could do in return, I’d do it.”

He smiled quaintly and pushed his stubby fingers through his sparse hair in his most helpless manner.

“If there was gold on my claim, I’d let you in all you need, and I wouldn’t want your dollars. Dollars? No, Bill, I don’t want dollars for doing anything for you. I sure don’t. I mean that. Maybe you’ll understand, y’see I’m not a business man–never was.”

The gambler averted his eyes. He could not look into the other’s face so shining with honesty and gratitude.

“But there ain’t no gold found on that claim yet,” Scipio went on. “Leastways, not that I know of, so what’s the use deceivin’ you? An’ dollars, why, there’s no question of ’em between us. You can stand in ha’f my claim, Bill, an’ welcome, but you ain’t going to pay me dollars for gold that ain’t been found. Yes, you’re sure welcome to ha’f my claim, an’ you ken set a man working for you. I’ll not say but I’ll be glad of the help. But don’t make no mistake, gold ain’t been found, as far as I know, an’ there may be none there, so I’d be glad if you don’t risk a lot of dollars in the work.”

The gambler felt mean as he listened to the quiet words ringing with such simple honesty. Time and again his beady eyes lifted to the steady blue ones, only to drop quickly before their fearless sincerity. He stirred irritably, and a hot impatience with himself drove him so that the moment Scipio finished speaking he broke out at once.

“Here,” he cried, without the least gentleness, “you’re talkin’ a heap o’ foolishness. I’m a bizness man offerin’ a bizness proposition. I don’t want nuthin’ given. I’m out to make a deal. You say there’s no gold there. Wal, I say there sure is. That bein’ so I’d be a low down skunk takin’ ha’f your claim fer nix, jest because you guess you owe me things–which I ’low you sure do, speakin’ plain. I got a thousand dollars right here,”–he pulled out a packet of bills from his hip pocket, and held them up for the other’s inspection–“an’ them dollars says ther’s gold on your claim. An’ I’m yearnin’ to touch ha’f that gold. But I’m takin’ no chances. I want it all wrote down reg’lar so folks can’t say I sneaked around you, an’ got it for nix. Gee, I’d look mighty small if you turned around on me afterwards. No, sir, you don’t get me that way. I’m only soft around my teeth. If you’re the man I take you for, if you’re honest as you’re guessin’, if you feel you want to pay me fer anything I done for you, why, cut the gas an’ take my dollars’ an’ I’ll get the papers made out by a Spawn City lawyer. They’re all that crooked they couldn’t walk a chalk-line, but I guess they know how to bind a feller good an’ tight, an’ I’ll see they bind you up so ther’ won’t be no room for fool tricks. That’s bizness.”

Scipio shook his head. And Bill flushed angrily.

“It ain’t square,” the little man protested. “Maybe you’ll lose your money.”

“That’s up to me,” the gambler began fiercely. Then he checked himself, and suddenly became quite grieved. “Wal, Zip, I wouldn’t ha’ b’lieved it. I sure wouldn’t. But ther’–life’s jest self. It’s all self. You’re like all the rest. I’ve been chasin’ a patch o’ good pay dirt ever since I bin around Sufferin’ Creek, an’ it’s only now I’ve found one to suit me. I sure thought you’d let me in on it. I sure did. Howsum, you won’t. You want it all yourself. Wall, go ahead. An’ you needn’t worry about what I told you this morning. My word goes every time. This ain’t going to make no difference. I’m not goin’ to squeal on that jest because you won’t ’blige me.”

He made as though to return his dollars to his pocket. He had turned away, but his shrewd eyes held his companion in their focus. He saw the flush of shame on Scipio’s face. He saw him open his mouth to speak. Then he saw it shut as he left his tub and came towards him. Bill waited, his cunning telling him to keep up his pretense. Scipio did not pause till he laid a hand on his arm, and his mild eyes were looking up into his keen, hard face.

“Bill,” he said, “you can have ha’f my claim and–and I’ll take your dollars. I jest didn’t guess I was bein’ selfish about it–I didn’t, truth. I was thinkin’ o’ you. I was thinkin’ you might lose your bills. Y’see, I haven’t had the best of luck–I–”

But the gambler’s face was a study as he pushed his hand off and turned on him. There was a fine struggle going on in his manner between the harshness he wished to display and the glad triumph he really felt.

“Don’t slob,” he cried. “Here’s the bills. Stuff ’em right down in your dip. Ha’f that claim is mine, an’ I’ll have the papers wrote reg’lar. I didn’t think you was mean, an’ I’m glad you ain’t.”

Scipio took the money reluctantly enough, and pushed it into his pocket with a sigh. But Bill had had enough of the matter. He turned to go, moving hastily. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. Thrusting his hand into a side pocket of his jacket he produced a paper parcel.

“Say, Zip, I come nigh forgettin’,” he cried cheerfully. “The hash-slinger down at Minky’s ast me to hand you this. It’s for the kiddies. It’s candy. I’d say she’s sweet on your kiddies. She said I wasn’t to let you know she’d sent ’em. So you ken jest kep your face closed. So long.”

He hurried away like a man ashamed. Scipio had such a way of looking into his eyes. But once out of sight he slackened his pace. And presently a smile crept into his small eyes, that set them twinkling.

“Guess I’m every kind of a fule,” he muttered. “A thousand dollars! Gee! An’ ther’ ain’t gold within a mile of the doggone claim–’cep’ when Zip’s ther’,” he added thoughtfully.

CHAPTER XX
HOW THE TRUST BOUGHT MEDICINE

Wild Bill ate his supper that evening because it was his custom to do so. He had no inclination for it, and it gave him no enjoyment. He treated the matter much as he would have treated the stoking of a stove on a winter’s night. So long as he was filled up he cared little for the class of the fuel.

Birdie waited on him with an attention and care such as she never bestowed upon any other boarder at the store, and the look in her bright eyes as she forestalled his wishes, compared with the air with which she executed the harshly delivered orders of the rest of the men, was quite sufficient to enlighten the casual onlooker as to the state of her romantic heart. But her blandishments were quite lost upon our hero. He treated her with much the same sort of indifference he might have displayed towards one of the camp dogs.

To-night, particularly, nothing she could do or say seemed to give him the least satisfaction. He ignored her as he ignored all the rest of the boarders, and devoured his meal in absolute silence–in so far as any speech went–wrapt in an impenetrable moroseness which had a damping effect upon the entire company.

Truth to tell, he was obsessed with his thoughts and feelings against the man James. With every passing day his resentment against him piled up, till now he could think of nothing much else but a possible way to dislodge him from the pinnacle of his local notoriety, and so rid the district of the threat of his presence.

How much of this feeling was purely personal, inspired by the natural antagonism of a strong, even violent, nature against a man whose very existence was an everlasting challenge to him, and how far it was the result of an unadmitted sympathy for Scipio, it would have been impossible to tell in a man like Wild Bill. Reason was not in such things with him. He never sought reasons where his feelings were concerned. James must go. And so his whole mind and force was given up to a search for adequate means to accomplish his purpose.

The problem was not easy. And when things were not easy to him, Bill’s temper invariably suffered. Besides, scheming was never pleasant to him. He was so essentially a man of action. An open battle appealed to him as nothing else in the world appealed to him. Force of arms–that was his conception of the settlement of human differences.

He admitted to himself that the events of the day had stirred his “bile.” He felt that he must hit out to ease himself, and the one direction to hit out in which would have given him any satisfaction was not yet available. So he brooded on, a smoldering volcano which his acquaintances avoided with a care inspired by past experience.

But his mood was bound to find an outlet somehow. It is always so. If the opportunity does not come naturally, ill-temper will make one. It was this way with the gambler. A devilish impulse caught him just as supper was nearing its finish.

The thought occurred with the entrance of Sandy Joyce, who took the empty place at the table on Bill’s right. Birdie was hovering near, and, as Sandy took his seat, she suddenly dumped a fresh cup of coffee before the gambler. She giggled coyly as the cup clattered on the bare table.

“I ain’t set sugar in it, Bill,” she said sweetly, and reached towards the sugar-bowl.

But the man pushed her arm roughly aside.

“Oh, skip!” he cried. “You make me sick.”

His bearishness in no way disconcerted the girl. She persisted, and dropped two spoonfuls of granulated sugar into his cup.

“Some folks need sugar,” she remarked, with another giggle, as she moved away. And somehow it was Bill who had suffered loss of dignity.

This only helped to aggravate his mood, and he turned his small eyes sharply on Sandy.

“I’m needin’ someone to work a claim fer me,” he said in a voice intended to reach every ear, and as he spoke a curious look came into his eyes. It was half a grin, half a challenge, and wholly meant mischief.

The effect was exactly as he had calculated. The entire attention of the room was on him at once, and he warmed as he waited for Sandy’s reply.

“You–you got a claim?” the widower inquired blankly.

Bill licked his lips after devouring a mouthful of pie.

“An’ why in hell not?” he retorted.

Before Sandy could gather an adequate reply, the matter was taken up by a young miner further down the table.

“Wher’ you got it, Bill?” he inquired, with genuine interest.

The gambler swallowed another mouthful of pie, and rammed the rim of crust into his cheek with his thumb, and leisurely devoured it before replying.

“I don’t see that my claim has anything to do wi’ the company present,” he said at last, with a dangerous look in his half-grinning eyes. “But, seein’ Mr. Joe Brand is kind o’ curious, guess he may as well know first as last.”

“I didn’t mean no offense, Bill,” apologized the miner, flushing and speaking hurriedly.

Bill promptly became sarcastic.

“Course you didn’t. Folks buttin’ in never don’t mean no offense. Howsum, guess my claim’s on the banks o’ Sufferin’ Creek. Maybe you feel better now?” He glared down the table, but finally turned again to Sandy. “You ain’t pertickler busy ’bout now, so–ther’s thirty dollars a week says you ken hev the job. An’ I’ll give you a percentage o’ the gold you wash up,” he added dryly. “You on?”

Sandy nodded. He didn’t quite understand his friend’s game. This was the first he had heard of Bill having acquired a claim–and on the river, too. There was only one other man on the river, and–well, Zip’s claim was the joke of the camp.

He had just formulated a question in his mind, when the words were taken out of his mouth by a heavy-faced prospector further down the table.

“Wher’ ’bouts on the Creek, Bill?” he inquired.

The gambler eyed him intently.

“Quite a piece up,” he said shortly.

A half-smile spread over the prospector’s face.

“Not nigh–Zip’s?” he suggested.

The half-grin in Bill’s eyes was becoming more savage.

“Yep–an’ I bought it.”

His information increased the interest with a bound. Every man there knew, or believed, that Zip’s claim was the only one on the Creek.

“I didn’t know there was any other but Zip’s,” said Joe Brand, his interest outrunning his discretion.

“Ah, you buttin’ in again,” sneered Bill. “Guess you know right, too. Ther’ ain’t.”

It was curious to glance down at the double row of faces lining the table and note the perplexity which suddenly gathered on them. Bill saw it and enjoyed it. It suited his mood. Finally the heavy-faced prospector blurted out the question that was in everybody’s mind, yet which the others dared not ask.

“You–you bought Zip’s claim?” he asked incredulously.

“Ha’f of it. Me an’ Zip’s partners. You got anything to say?”

Bill’s words rapped out with biting force, and Sandy, knowing the man, waited, solemn-eyed. Just for one moment astonishment held his audience breathless. Then some one sniggered, and it became the cue for an instantaneous and general guffaw of derision. Every face was wreathed in a broad grin. The humor of this thing was too much. Zip’s claim! Bill, the keen, unscrupulous gambler, had fallen for Zip’s mud-hole on the banks of Suffering Creek!

Bill waited. The laugh was what he needed, so he waited till it died out. As it did so he kicked back his chair and stood up, his tall figure and hard face a picture of cold challenge.

“You’re that merry, folks,” he said, his teeth clipping each word, “that maybe some o’ you got something to say. I’d like to hear it. No?” as he waited. But no one seemed anxious to comment. “Joe Brand kind o’ seems fond o’ buttin’ in–mebbe he’ll oblige.”

But the young miner was not to be drawn. Bill shrugged his lean shoulders, his fierce eyes alight with a dangerous fire.

“Wal,” he went on, “I don’t guess I ken make folks talk if they don’t notion it. But I want to say right here I bought ha’f o’ Zip’s claim fer good dollars, an’ I’m goin’ to pay Sandy Joyce a tiptop wage fer workin’ my share. An’”–he paused and glanced swiftly and defiantly at the faces which were no longer smiling–“an’ I want to say I bought the richest lay-out in this bum camp. Any feller who ain’t o’ the same opinion ken git right up on to his hind legs an’ call me a ‘liar’–an’ I’m jest yearnin’ fer some feller to git around an’ call me that. Jest turn it over in your fool heads. You don’t need to hurry any. Ther’s days an’ days to come, an’ at any time I’ll be glad fer all o’ you to come along an’ tell me I’m–a liar.”

He paused, his fierce eyes gleaming. He felt good. His outburst had relieved his pent feelings. It was a safety-valve which had worked satisfactorily at the right moment. But as he received no answer to his challenge he turned to Sandy.

“Ther’ don’t seem to be nuthin’ doin’,” he said, with a grim smile. “So ef you’ll come right along we’ll fix things out in the store. Guess you ken finish your hash after.”

Sandy rose. For a moment Bill did not attempt to move. It was as though he were giving the rest of the boarders one last chance of accepting his challenge. But as no one offered any comment or made any attempt to stay him, he turned away at last with a sigh which was probably of disappointment, and led the way out into the store.

But if the men had made no comment in his presence, it was a different matter after his departure. Loud indignation broke out, and fierce, if impotent, protest passed from lip to lip. It was only for a few moments, however, and presently anger gave place to a realization of the absurdity of the whole thing.

The humor of these men was tickled. The whole thing was too ludicrous for words. To think that Wild Bill, the renowned sharp, the shrewdest, the wisest man on Suffering Creek, had fallen for such a proposition! It was certainly the funniest, the best joke that had ever come their way. How had it happened? they asked each other. Had Zip been clever enough to “salt” his claim? It was hardly likely. Only they knew he was hard up, and it was just possible, with his responsibilities weighing heavily on him, he had resorted to an illicit practice to realize on his property. They thought of and discussed every possible means they could think of by which Bill could have been lured to the hook–and caught–and landed. That was the joke. It was astounding. It was too good. To-morrow the whole camp would be ringing with laughter at the news, but–but the laughter was not likely to reach the gambler’s ears.

In the meantime it was quite a different man who was lounging over Minky’s counter talking to Sandy and the storekeeper. Bill had relieved the pressure of his mood for the moment, and now, like a momentarily exhausted volcano, he was enjoying the calm of reaction.

“I’ll need you to start work right away,” he was saying, “an’ you ken draw on me fer all the supplies you need. It’s a dandy claim,” he went on grimly, “but I don’t know fer sure what you’ll likely find on it. Maybe you’ll find suthin’–if you work long enough. Anyways, you’ll start by sinkin’ a shaft; an’ you’ll kep on sinkin’ it till–till I tell you to quit.”

“But that ain’t the regular way gold–”

“Say, whose claim is it? Am I payin’ you or not?” demanded the gambler sharply.

“Sure you are, but you said it was the richest–”

“That was back ther’ at supper,” said Bill coldly. “Guess supper’s over.”

Sandy had no quickness of understanding. He did not appreciate the fineness of the distinction. He shook his head solemnly.

“Maybe I ain’t jest bright enuff to foller–”

“You ain’t,” agreed Bill shortly.

He winked at Minky, who was listening interestedly. Then he turned abruptly and pointed at the array of patent medicines adorning one of the shelves.

“Say,” he cried, “’bout them physics.”

Minky turned and gazed affectionately at the shelf. It was the pride of his store. He always kept it well dusted and dressed. The delicate wrappings and fancy labels always had a strong fascination for him. Then there were the curative possibilities of the contents of the inviting packages as set forth by the insistent “drummer” who sold them to him.

“An elegant stock,” he murmured. “Sort of concentrated health.” Then he glanced round anxiously. “Your hosses ain’t ailin’?” he inquired. “I got most everything fer hosses. Ther’s embrocation, hoss iles, every sort of lin’ments. Hoss balls? Linseed?”

The gambler shook his head.

“You ain’t got physic fer men-folk?” he inquired.

“I sure have. But–but you ain’t sick?” Minky eyed his friend narrowly.

Bill’s mouth twisted wryly.

“I ain’t jest sick,” he replied. “But,” he added hopefully, “you can’t never be sure.”

Minky nodded.

“That’s so. I’d say you don’t look a heap sick, though.”

“You sure don’t,” agreed Sandy. “But, as you sez, you can’t never tell. Now, you buyin’ ha’f Zip’s claim makes–” His words died down to a thoughtful murmur. Bill’s look was somehow discouraging as he pointed at the medicine.

“What you got?” he demanded abruptly.

“Why, most everything,” said Minky. “Ther’, you see that longish bottle? That’s a dandy cough cure. Guess you ain’t needin’ that? No? Ah!” as Bill shook his head, “I didn’t guess you’d a cough. Corns? Now, this yer packet is an elegant fixin’ fer corns, soft an’ hard. It jest kills ’em stone dead, sure. It’s bully stuff, but ’tain’t good fer eatin’. You ain’t got corns?” he inquired, as Bill again shook his head. “Ah, seems a pity.” He turned again to the shelf, determined, if possible, to suit his customer, and lifted down a number of packets and sealed bottles. “Now, here,” he cried, holding up a dainty box tied up with a delicate-colored ribbon. For a moment his audience believed it to be candy, but he quickly undeceived them. “Now this yer is dandy truck, though I don’t guess ther’s a heap o’ use fer it on Suffering Creek. It’s fer softening alkali water. When the drummer told me that, I guessed to him ther wa’an’t a heap o’ water drunk in this camp. But he said it wa’an’t fer drinkin’ water; it was fer baths. I kind o’ told him that wouldn’t help the sale any, so he said it could be used fer washin’. Seein’ he couldn’t sell me any that way neither, he got riled an’ give me a present of it, an’ said he guessed Sufferin’ Creek did use water fer washing gold. Y’see, its price is a dollar an’ a ha’f, but, seein’ it’s kind o’ dead stock, you ken have it a present.”