The Heart of Canyon Pass

CHAPTER VII – THE FIRST TRICK

The high-springed stagecoach lurched drunkenly over the trail that wound through a valley Betty thought gnomes might have hewn out when the world was young. Barren, riven rock, gaunt, stunted trees, painted cliffs hazed by distance, all added to a prospect that fell far short in the Eastern girl’s opinion of being picturesque.

Rather, it was just what her brother had termed this Western country – raw. Betty did not like any rude thing. She shrank instinctively from anything crude and unfinished.

The three – herself, her brother, and Joe Hurley – occupied the seat on the roof of the plunging coach just behind the driver. “Lizard Dan” was an uncouth individual both in speech and appearance. He was bewhiskered, overalled, wore broken boots and an enormous slouched hat, and his hands were so grimy that Betty shuddered at them, although they so skillfully handled the reins over the backs of six frisky driving-mules.

Lizard Dan, Hurley told the Easterners, had gained his nickname when he was a pocket-hunter in a now far-distant day. He had been lost in the desert at one time and swore when he came out that he had existed by eating Crotaphytus Wislizeni roasted over a fire of dry cacti – the succulence of which saurian is much doubted by the Western white man, although it is a small brother of the South American iguana, there considered a delicacy.

However, Dan acquired a nickname and such a fear of the desert thereby that he became the one known specimen of the completely cured desert rat. He never went prospecting again, but instead drove the stage between Crescent City and Canyon Pass.

“The boys expecting us at the Pass to-day, Dan?” Joe Hurley had asked early in the journey.

“Youbetcha!”

“Got your gun loaded?”

Dan kicked the heavy double-barreled shotgun at his feet and replied again:

“Youbetcha!”

“Do – do wild animals infest the road?” Betty had asked stammeringly.

“Not much,” said Hurley. “But Dan carries a heap of registered mail in which wild men, rather than wild animals, might be interested.”

“Youbetcha!” agreed Dan.

Hurley glanced sideways at Betty’s face, caught its expression, and exploded into laughter.

“You’ve come to ‘Youbetcha Land,’ Miss Betty,” he said, when he could speak again.

“He is a character,” chuckled Hunt on her other side.

The suggestion of highwaymen stuck in the girl’s mind. She looked from Lizard Dan’s weapon to the ivory butt of the heavy revolver pouched at Joe Hurley’s waist. These weapons could not be worn exactly for show – an exhibition of the vanity of rather uncouth minds. It fretted her though without frightening her, this phase of Western life. It was not the possibility of gun-fights and brawls and the offices of Judge Lynch that made Betty Hunt shrink from contact with this country and its people.

The stagecoach mounted out of the valley – which might, Hunt said, have been fittingly described by Ezekiel – and followed a winding trail through the minor range of hills that divided Crescent City and its purlieus from the Canyon Pass country. The coach pitched and rocked as though it was a sea-going hack.

In time they crossed the small divide and came down the watershed into the valley of the East Fork.

Borne to their ears on the breeze at last, through the sound of the rumbling coach-wheels and the rattling trace-chains, was another noise. A throbbing rhythm of sound with the dull swish of intermittent streams of water.

“The hydraulic pumps at the Eureka Washings,” explained Hurley. “We’ll be in sight of them – and of Canyon Pass – before very long.”

The stagecoach lurched around a corner, and the raw, red bench of the riverbank came into view. Steam pumps were noisily at work and men were busy at the sluices into which the gold-bearing earth and gravel were washed down from the high bank.

Three great, brass-nozzled hydraulic “guns” were at work – each machine straddled by a man in oil-skins and hip boots, who manipulated the heavy stream of water that ate into the bank and crumbled it in sections.

At the moment of their sighting the hydraulic washings across the river, there was raised a wild, concerted shout from a point ahead. Out of a hidden cove galloped a cavalcade of a dozen or more mounted men, who swept up the road to meet the coach.

For an instant Betty thought of the shotgun at Dan’s feet and of highwaymen. These coming riders waved guns and yelled like wild Indians. But she saw a broad grin on Joe Hurley’s face.

“Here come some of the Great Hope boys,” he explained. “Their idea of ‘welcome to our city’ may be a little noisy, but they mean you well, Hunt.”

They came “a-shootin’,” and Lizard Dan threw the long lash of his whip over the backs of his six mules to force them through the cavalcade on the gallop.

Firing their guns and yelling, the riders on their wiry ponies surrounding the coach as its escort, pounded down to the ford. Their hullabaloo announced far in advance the approach of the coach to Canyon Pass.

In all its ugliness the mining camp was revealed. The gaze of the Easterners was focused on its unpainted shacks and rutted streets. They saw men, women, children, and a multitude of dogs running from all points toward the main thoroughfare of the town.

It was like a picture – not like anything real. Betty’s dazed mind could not accept this nightmare of a place as actually being the town to which fate – and her brother’s obstinacy – had brought them. Given an opportunity right then, the girl would have failed her brother! She was in a mood to desert him and return East as fast as she could travel.

Joe Hurley grinned at her. She had begun almost to hate those twinkling brown eyes of his with the golden sparks in them. He seemed to know just what her feelings were and to enjoy her horror of the crudity which assailed her on every hand. To her mind, Hurley was worse than his associates, for he had enjoyed the advantages of some culture.

The mules dashed into the shallows. Spray flew as high as the roof of the coach. The mules settled into a heavier pace as they dragged the vehicle up the farther bank and into the foot of Main Street.

The crowd – a couple of hundred people of all ages – had gathered before the Wild Rose Hotel. This stood opposite the bank and farther along the street than the Three Star Grocery and Boss Tolley’s Grub Stake. The mules picked up their heels again under the cracking of Lizard Dan’s whiplash, and cantered up to the chief hostelry of Canyon Pass. The yelling crew of horsemen – a bizarre committee of welcome indeed – rode ahead, punctuating their vociferous clamor by an occasional pistol-shot.

Betty caught sight of her brother’s face. It was as broadly smiling as was that of Joe Hurley! Actually Ford was enjoying this awful experience.

The moment Dan drew the mules to a halt, Hurley was half way to the ground and turned on the step to help Betty down. She glanced timidly at Hunt again. He was preparing to descend on the other side of the coach, leaving her entirely to Hurley’s care.

Then occurred that incident which would ever be engraved upon Betty’s memory, and which marked indeed the coming of the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt to Canyon Pass on the archives of the town’s history in letters that never would be effaced.

As Hunt started to descend from the roof of the coach there sounded a single pistol-shot and the hat he wore – a low-crowned affair, the single mark of the cleric in his dress – sailed into the air with a ragged hole through brim and crown.

As the hat flew upward a fusillade of five more shots followed the first, and the hat was torn to rags as it sailed over the roof of the coach. The crowd roared – some in anger, but most in derision. The man standing by the door of the Grub Stake reloaded his gun before putting it away, grinning broadly.

Hunt was startled; but his own smile did not fade. What was it Joe had impressed so emphatically upon his mind?

“It’s the first impression that counts with Canyon Pass folks. Give ’em the chance, and they’ll laugh you out of town. And remember, they are bound to judge you, Hunt, by their own standards.”

The young minister felt that the occasion was momentous. His usefulness here in Canyon Pass might depend upon his action or comment in this emergency.

His nerves were perfectly steady. How was his nerve? He knew the man who had shot the hat from his head was such a good shot that he had been in no danger at all.

But Hunt felt that something more was expected of him than the mere ignoring of a rude and offensive act. He started across the road toward the gunman. Those who stood in the way opened a lane for him with some alacrity. The smiles upon the faces of those who moved stiffened. Something extraordinary, something they had not at all expected, was about to happen.

Hicks, slouching against the front of the Grub Stake, came to sudden attention. His fingers crooked, creeping toward the butt of his gun again. Every atom of the ruffian’s courage – such as it was – lay in that weapon. Without it – and its leaden death – he was a sheep for bravery!

Smiling still Hunt reached him. The parson’s steady gaze held that of Hicks as the human eye is said to hypnotize the gaze of all wild beasts. Hicks, however, was not wild. Not now. Not so you could notice it!

“Brother,” Hunt said cheerfully, “you’ve spoiled my hat. It’s the only hat I’ve got with me until my trunks come in by freight. You’ve had your fun, and it’s only fair you should pay for it.”

The expression of Hicks’ face sunk into a sneer. He thought the white-livered parson was trying to get money from him for the hat. He must indeed be a “softie.”

Then Hunt’s hands moved suddenly, swiftly. In a flash he had snatched the broad-brimmed hat from Hicks’ head and placed it on his own,

“Turn about is fair play, don’t you think?” said the parson, and without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and went back across the street!

The silence that had fallen on the crowd had been of that tense, strained quality that portended tragedy. Had Hunt showed offense at the trick played upon him and struck Hicks, the latter would have used his gun without mercy. And scarcely could a jury have been impaneled in Canyon Pass that would have convicted the ruffian.

But of a sudden, a roar of laughter rose from the crowd. They rocked with it, beating their knees, holding their sides, laughing with wide-open mouths and streaming eyes. Nor was the comical appearance of Hicks’ dilapidated hat crowning the parson’s otherwise impeccable outfit all that spurred Canyon Pass to such wild cachinnation.

The strident laughter was aimed at the chagrined gunman. Hicks knew it. The broad back of the parson offered a sure target; but he knew better than to draw his gun a second time. Instead he turned away, hatless, and sought sanctuary in the Grub Stake.

Hunt had taken the first trick in this game he had “set into.” And Canyon Pass to a man admired a shrewd gambler.

CHAPTER VIII – A FLOWER IN THE MIRE

Had Betty Hunt not had Joe Hurley to steady her as she came down from the roof of the stagecoach to the ground in the midst of the crowd, she never could have stood upright through that scene! The sight of her brother’s hat flying overhead, the target of Hicks’ six-gun, led her to believe that Hunt was in peril – deadly peril.

She wanted to beg Hurley to run to her brother’s rescue, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. What followed utterly appalled her. She verily believed that Hunt took his life in his hands when he approached and browbeat the bad man!

But as she heard the boisterous laughter of the crowd and saw the strange hat flapping about the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt’s ears, Betty became suddenly angry.

“Take off that horrid hat, Ford!” she cried when the parson joined them. “I beg of you, take it off at once.”

“Don’t do it, Willie,” interposed Hurley. “Let it be. No crown of glory you may earn will ever so become you. Continue to wear it, Reverend, and not a soul in Canyon Pass will ever laugh at you, if they do at the hat. It will remind ’em that you’re an honest-to-goodness he-man.”

Hunt smiled deprecatingly. “You make too much of it, Joe. Don’t worry, Betty, about the hat. I might as well keep the joke up a little while.”

“‘Joke!’” she groaned.

Hurley slapped Hunt resoundingly on the shoulder. “You’re all right, Willie!”

This turned Betty against him all the more. It was so uncouth she thought on Hurley’s part and so undignified on her brother’s. With all these people looking on, grinning and gaping, was that the way to gain respect for a clergyman and for his work?

“Well, let’s go into the Wild Rose and get you settled,” Hurley said with that cordiality that did much, after all, to disarm Betty’s criticism. “I told ‘Cholo’ Sam and Maria to clean up some rooms for you and try and make things halfway decent. But I don’t know. This isn’t like the hotel at Crescent City.”

The statement was not conducive to Betty’s peace of mind. The sordidness and squalor of Canyon Pass was being from moment to moment etched more deeply on her brain. They mounted the steps of unplaned boards and crossed the porch that shook even under Betty’s light tread. Unpainted walls, uncarpeted stairs, and not altogether clean floors met her gaze as they entered the hostelry.

If Hunt was appalled by the rudeness of their surroundings he very successfully hid his real feelings. He had spent vacations in the hunting and fishing camps of Maine and Quebec. The lack of even the ordinary conveniences of civilized life could not in any case trouble him as it did his gently nurtured sister.

He did, however, on this first evening arrange to have their supper served in Betty’s room, rather than forcing her to eat in the general dining-room of the hotel. But he explained that they could not thus segregate themselves in the future.

“It wouldn’t do, Betty. I must mix with these people – show myself willing to be one of them in ordinary ways. Respect for the cloth cannot be won among these open-hearted folk by finnicky manners. I must be one of them. I must show them that I am a man as well as a preacher.”