Read Ebook: The Valley of Gold: A Tale of the Saskatchewan by Howarth David Taylor Henry Weston Illustrator

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Ebook has 1543 lines and 63477 words, and 31 pages

THE VALLEY OF GOLD

FRONTISPIECE BY H. WESTON TAYLOR

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave. London: 21 Paternoster Square Edinburgh: 75 Princes Street

The east wind blew furiously, beating gray sheets down the streaming panes. Along the village street flowed a turbid torrent, the squalid wash of an "old-timer-three-days'-blow" from the Great Lakes. Threshing was hung up. Every wheel was stopped for a thousand miles across the prairies.

Sparrow's pool-room was a cavern of smoke. Through the blue-ringed mists of tobacco moved the unkempt silhouettes of boisterous threshermen. Suddenly over the hubbub rose a jeering cry.

Ned Pullar leaned down and knocked the ashes out of his briar. His immobile face gave no sign that the cry was an insulting challenge. Opening his knife he slowly scooped out the bowl of his pipe. Tapping the inverted briar on the palm of his hand, he proceeded leisurely to fill in the tobacco. This act duly completed, he turned about and looked McClure in the face. In his eyes was a faint twinkle, but he elected to hold his tongue. His deliberate silence provoked his tormentor. Hitherto McClure had addressed him in a low tone. Now his great voice rose above the chatter of the players and the noise of the crashing balls.

"Come, Pullar!" he sneered. "You're yellow. How about odds?"

Play ceased and all eyes turned on the two men.

"Pull easy, Rob!" adjured some partisan of McClure's. "He's soft in the mouth."

The crowd raised applauding guffaws.

"Naw, it's the blind staggers, pards," cried a smooth voice. "Watch his blinkers."

The immoderate laugh of the crowd had a curiously menacing note.

Pullar's blinkers were not blinking, however. He held McClure's eyes with a level glance.

Thrusting hands to hips akimbo McClure cried insolently:

"S-s-stumped! You quitter!"

Pullar was still silent. His clear eye was taking in the situation. McClure was plainly bent on baiting him and his purpose was beginning to dawn on the Valley boss. A quick survey of the room discovered to him the presence of nine of McClure's men. He could see them moving about into position to cut off all egress from the one door. Not a man of his own gang was in sight and the two or three outsiders were not promising allies. The stench of liquor and the savage flashing of wild eyes warned him of their fell intention. In the swift process of his thought he realized that they were about to pull him down and "jump" him with the unspeakable savagery of drunken fools. He was trapped. With every sense alert he went ahead imperturbably preparing to light up.

Drawing a wad of bills from his pocket McClure thrust them under Pullar's nose.

"Five hundred bucks!" he challenged. "Five hundred little bucks to lay against you two to one that we can lick the Valley Outfit in a thirty day run any old time you want to take it on. No time like the present, Pullar!"

Ned Pullar stood straight and immense, a muscular figure in overalls and smock. His fresh, youthful face looked almost innocently from under the peak of his cap. His eyes were serious for an instant, then released an amused smile.

"Rob McClure!" he said quietly. "You are developing an interesting humour. Three times to-day you have flaunted this trifling wager in my face. It means nothing to me--nothing more than do you yourself, Robbie, mon, or your engaging gang."

The mocking tone provoked a swift change in McClure. His eyes narrowed to slits that gleamed evilly. The rush of passion rendered him impotently mute. Backing their boss with yells of rage the gang moved menacingly toward the speaker. Suddenly above the foul oaths rang out a voice. It was one of the outsiders who had slipped unnoticed to the door. With his hand on the knob he called out:

"Hold 'em, Ned. I'll fetch the Valley Outfit mighty quick."

There was a rush toward him, but he dashed out of the door and away.

Then followed an instant move toward the solitary and defiant figure of the Valley boss.

"Halt! You drunken dogs!" cried Pullar in a voice that effected his purpose.

Pausing, the crowd eyed their quarry cautiously, warned by the terrible flame leaping from the eyes where but a moment before glimmered a whimsical smile. Holding his pipe to his lips with a match ready to light, he addressed them quietly.

"I was getting ready," said he, "to hit the trail for The Craggs when McClure worked himself up over this bet. I'm not interested in his little gamble. But I am tolerable anxious over the important matter of hiking along home to milk the cows. I'm going to pass out that door and I'd hate to hustle any of you fellows unnecessarily."

He took a step toward them. There was an involuntary movement to retreat. Pullar laughed and the threshers, with wild yells, rushed at their prey. Above the clamour rose the bull-like roar of McClure.

"Throw the big stiff!" he shouted. "Mush him under your boots before his gang get here. Put him out and we'll handle them."

With answering shouts they leaped to the attack. Pullar stepped back lightly, feigning retreat. Drawn by the ruse two sprang after him. Suddenly they felt a clutch like steel. Separating the two assailants he brought them together with a trap-like shutting of his muscular arms. Their heads met with a muffled shock and he sent them reeling to the wall. Hands were grasping for him as he shot out his right fist and his left and two more of his demented foes sank to their knees. Making a lightning side step he sprang away, freeing himself from the gripping tentacles of the gang.

In a flashing glimpse he found that he had dodged the attack en masse only to throw himself in the path of Snoopy Bill Baird. The huge slouching form was charging him wickedly. He twisted aside to elude the onset but was unable to avoid the kick of the heavy boot. It caught him along the cheek-bone, ripping the flesh. He closed, clinching his assailant. The big fellows were well matched, but with a confusing speed Pullar had pinned Baird's arms in a girdling grip. Tripping his great, writhing captive over his hip he flung him clean away above his head. Like a flying missile the man shot through the air, crashing down sprawlingly upon a pool table.

Pullar was not aware that his huge antagonist lay on the table a groaning heap, for they were dragging him down on all sides. Two of his assailants clung to his arms, robbing him of any means of defense, while a third belaboured him fiercely about the head. Still another fastened on his throat. This latter clutched Pullar's neck with both hands, gouging his thumbs into the windpipe with vicious design to strangle. The vital grip began to tell and slowly at first, then with a chuck, they went to the floor.

"No, McClure!" said he with a grim smile. "I don't need to."

The other looked at him a moment then breathed a low oath of surprise. At that instant there was a great shout and the Valley Gang charged through the door. Turning to the gang Ned Pullar lifted his hands and shouted out above the tumult:

"Back, men! This fracas is over!"

"Not on yer life!" cried Easy Murphy, angered to fighting-mad pitch by the sight of the bloody face of his boss.

"The fight is over!" cried Ned, holding back his men.

"Begobs! Ye don't know this wan Irish divil, Ned?" screamed Murphy. "I wull be afthurr pluggin' the lights uv me frind McClure."

At the words he stepped toward McClure, followed by the others. But he was intercepted by a swift motion of Pullar.

"No, Easy!" cried the young boss firmly. "Stick with me, lad. This is my powwow. We are about to smoke the pipe of peace."

For a fleeting instant he caught the Irishman's eye. The flash of intelligence that passed between them checked the belligerent passion in Murphy's wild heart. With a significant and rueful nod the thresher agreed to Pullar's wish.

"Ah, Ned, darlint!" said he affectionately, taking in the room at a sweeping glance. "For why have ye bin mussin' up Rob's bowld byes? 'Tis a cyclone blower ye are, me hearty. Go ahead wid the show. The Valley Gang's occupyin' the front sates."

With a very bad grace the Valley Outfit followed their spokesman's lead. The eyes of the two gangs turned to Ned.

Aside from the gash along his cheek he was unhurt. Walking in among McClure's men he picked up his pipe. Repacking the tobacco carefully he lit up. Throwing a series of blue circles to the ceiling he indulged in a moment's reminiscence. Finally he spoke, addressing Easy Murphy in his usual quiet tone.

Here arose a sudden commotion, savage threats and a sinister movement of the Valley Gang. Ned waved his men back with a laugh.

"Just a minute, lads," said he. "Let me have my say. McClure pretends that he can lick the Valley Outfit in a thirty day out-put. Strange as it may seem I cannot agree with him. If he will make a real bet, make it cash and approve Jack Butte as holder of stakes, we'll be able to start something right off the bat."

On the heels of his words rose a chorus of defies from his men. Hands flew to pockets and wads appeared. Snoopy Bill caught his feet groggily scenting a gamble. In Rob McClure's eyes shone the gleam of the shark.

"Now you're spunking up!" said he with a sneer. "Butte's our man."

Turning to one of his gang, he said:

"Scoot out, Ford, and get him."

While the man started off to carry out his bidding he whipped out his check book and filled in a form. As Snoopy Bill spied the amount he let out a low whistle.

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