Part 34 (2/2)
”Well,” he heard Al Drummond saying to Lucy, ”I see they got in again this evening.”
Hiram supposed ”they” referred to the freighting outfit of Jerkline Jo.
”Yes,” replied Lucy, ”and here it is late January, Al, and we've accomplished nothing.”
”No, nothing,” Drummond admitted gloomily. ”And our chances look mighty slim to get at her. Every trip she's got those five husky skinners with her, and I guess every one of them is fool enough to put up a sc.r.a.p for her if he knew he'd get croaked in the deal.”
”We must think up another plan to separate her from them,” the girl suggested.
”Confound it!” muttered Drummond. ”Everything was moving along smoothly, and the next minute we'd have had the razor working; then here comes that big b.o.o.b and takes us by surprise. Lord, how he swung those clubs!”
”You're afraid of him, since he beat you up on the desert,” Lucy said tauntingly.
”Huh! I'll get him yet! I'm willing to admit he's too many for me in a stand-up and knock-down fight. He's a whirlwind--I never saw his like. Why, up there in the mountains he seemed to have a dozen arms, all working at once. Wild Cat is right! But I haven't been raised on salt pork and corn bread. I've lived. Just the same, when I get good and ready I'll fix his engine for him.”
”I imagine he'll be around to oversee the work,” remarked Lucy in a tone that probably made Drummond long to choke her.
”Well, that's not the point,” she went on after a little. ”What are we going to do to get at that creature known as Jerkline Jo, the four-flusher? She's crooked as a dog's hind leg, and goes around pulling the pious stuff on the roughnecks.”
”You think because you're crooked every other woman is, eh? I'll say this for Jo--she's straight and a dead-game sport. She's not a four-flusher. Of course I'd do anything to get even for the way she handed it to me in the freighting game. But there's no sense in you and me running her down to each other when we don't believe ourselves.”
”So you've fallen for her, too, have you?” Lucy asked sarcastically.
”Don't be a fool, Lucy! A man can't help admiring a girl like Jo.”
”Thanks for your a.s.surances, Al,” Lucy said cuttingly.
”Well, well, well! Sc.r.a.p all night about nothing! Forget it! Shut up! Guess who I saw to-day as I was driving over the desert.”
”Who?” sullenly.
”Your dear old uncle.”
”My uncle!”
”Sure--that's what you called him. Basil Filer, the crazy prospector.”
”Sure enough, Al?” Lucy's tones were brighter.
”Pretty much so. Didn't seem to recognize me at all. I was at Comstock's camp, and he rambled in with his burros. Stood within five feet of me and looked right at me. Never saw me before!” and Drummond chuckled.
”Al, where on earth do you suppose he's been since you took him out on the desert and dumped him?”
”Heaven knows! Wandering about looking for a prospect, I suppose. I'd have given fifty dollars to be hidden close by when he came out of it next morning.”
”Poor old duffer! But suppose Hooker and Jo or some of that bunch should stumble onto him, Al! Was he making this way?”
”Yes; but he was fifty miles up the lines. There were two or three women about Comstock's commissary tent--two of Comstock's daughters and the wife of his walking-boss. The old bird kept looking at them and shaking his head, just like he did with you. He's still hunting for his pardner's daughter. He's a crazy nut, and I guess wherever he goes he's trying to get on her trail.”
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