EBB CLEVELAND, IN HIS PRIVATE OFFICE IN THE back of the Gold Nugget Saloon, paced back and forth, puffing on his pipe, biting savagely on the pipe stem. He was large, rawboned, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes. He wore the typical garb of the professional gambler: black coat, light trousers and a white vest.
He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the corner of the desk, and refilled it. The stage coach had arrived two hours ago. He cursed to the accompaniment of music and laughter in the saloon. The door suddenly opened and he whirled about savagely.
"Where in hell have you been since the stage came in?" he demanded savagely.
The round face of the intruder paled. "Just been changin' clothes, boss. Sorry I been so long. I'll explain."
Cleveland cut him short. "You'll have a lot to explain, Maxwell. What the damnation do you mean by bringin' that kid into town? Ain't things been bad enough for us around here since old Hildebrandt was wiped out, without this?"
"Now' don't go blamin' me, boss. I knew you'd be mad as a hornet, but that feller who was on the stage is a hell-roarin' bad man. I made a holler about bringin' the kid in, but this gun-toter told me to go to hell. What's more, he backed his play. Said he was goin' to bring the kid in and let the people know about what was goin' on around here. Honest, I never saw a draw like that Yank carries."
Cleveland snorted disgustedly. "Max, you're gettin' soft bellied!"
"You would be too, boss, if you had a run-in with him like I did. I tell you, Cleveland, our troubles have been like a Sunday School to what it's goin' to be while this Yank is in this territory."
Cleveland did not answer immediately, but methodically filled and lit his pipe. "Leave him to me," he said at length, without looking up. "It won't do to rub him out too quick, but I sure want to meet this gent with the greased lightnin' draw. If I don't find a way to put him out of the way, it'll be the first time Ebb Cleveland ever failed."
* * * *
Bob Bainbridge was awakened from a dead slumber by the tinkling of bells. He arose quickly and hurried to the window. A string of pack mules was ambling out across the Clearwater, heading toward the Bitterroot Trail and the gold fields beyond. Something in the scene stirred his ancestral blood, and gave him a longing to explore the unknown in that mysterious territory. Right then he knew that one of these days he'd be taking that long trail and following its adventures to the end.
The sun was an hour high. Sprays of golden light played among the branches of the young summer leaves. A cool breeze fresh from the river fanned his face. He inhaled deeply as a smile of exhilaration came over his face. The beauty of the June morning for the moment almost effaced the gloomy purpose for which he had deserted all else.
A knock at the door brought him back to present realities with all their dangerous possibilities.
"Hello!" he called, pulling on his trousers and leaving his suspenders dangling. He recognized the hotelkeeper's voice.
"Jest wondered' stranger, was yuh daid, er was yuh aimin' to sleep till the Angel Gabriel sounded his trumpet?"
"Be right down, Dad"' he answered, pouring cold water from the tin bucket into the wash basin. Then he added, "Why don't you step inside?"
The little proprietor, eyes blinking, hobbled in. "Aimin' to chow this mornin'?"
"Sure am," Bainbridge answered, drying his tanned face with an unbleached factory towel. "I aim to set my teeth into the biggest steak in the house. By the way, do you know Pat Ford?"
"Pat Ford? Shore. Owns the saloon right across the street. First rate feller, only they says as how he meddles in other folks' business too much."
"That so?"
"But I guess it's 'cause he's got a wife an' kid. Right smart they be, too. Don't know as I blames him much." Then after a short pause, "Aimin' tuh team up with him?"
Bainbridge's evasion was a disappointment to the curious hosteler. "Got that steak down there?"
"Yes, I ain't!" he bristled. "D'yuh think we serves breakfast all day?" Then, as an afterthought, "I guess we could fix a bite, maybe."
Bainbridge didn't go to see Ford at once. He knew from the information he'd received from the hotelkeeper that the eyes of everyone were on him. They were evidently curious to know whether he was going to throw in with Ford, and, just at present, he didn't care to invite more enmity. He therefore spent the day looking over the town, and doing a little investigating to determine Ford's standing among the men.
Toward evening he visited the Cleveland saloon. Already the frivolity had begun. The fiddler sat in the corner of the barroom, hoisted upon a high platform, playing to the rhythm of booted feet of rough miners. He took a chair at one of the tables and ordered a drink, where he sat observing curiously the milling crowd in front of him.
He seemed to be keenly interested in the girls, several of whom approached him, but he was not interested socially. It took less than thirty minutes observation to satisfy him. He arose and pushed back his chair with the toe of his boot, when a familiar voice hailed him. He recognized at once the gambler with whom he had had the tilt on the stage. The man was decked out like the chief mourner at a funeral. The ends of his moustache had been freshly curled.
"See you ain't gone out to any of the diggings yet? Come up and have one on me for old time's sake."
"Thank you, but I'm not drinking tonight, stranger," Bainbridge demurred curtly.
"Meanin' what?" The gambler's eyes showed fire.
Bainbridge made no pretense of evasion. "Meaning that I don't care to drink with you."
It was a crucial moment, pregnant with dire possibilities. For a moment the two men surveyed each other coldly. Both recognized the intended insult. The gambler broke the tense silence.
"Listen' tenderfoot, nobody ever insulted Maxwell and lived long! If it wasn't for the boss you'd be a daid man this minute!"
Bainbridge smiled dangerously with his eyes. Maxwell turned on his heel and disappeared in the crowd. Bainbridge pushed through the men to the street. So the big boss was saving him for a special occasion; He was certain now that Maxwell was one of the Innocents Gang, and that sooner or later he would have to use something stronger than words. From that moment he knew that he was a marked man and that his life was in danger every minute he stayed in Lewiston. This realization decided him. He'd see Pat Ford at once. What came of his visit would determine whether he should remain in Lewiston or start for the interior.
He found Pat Ford in his private office in the rear of his saloon.
"You've been a long time coming, Bainbridge, but I'm glad you're here," Ford greeted, extending his hand.
"Didn't know there was any great hurry," Bainbridge answered congenially.
"You don't know this country, my friend", Ford answered, pouring a drink. They drank together. "Pull up a chair. Smoke? It isn't the best tobacco in the world, but it's as good as there is in Bannock Territory. Now, what I want to know is how did you ever get that body in here on that stage?"
Bob grinned. "Well, I reckon I...well, I just persuaded them to bring it."
Ford shook his head thoughtfully. "It was a foolish thing to do for your health, but it was a mighty brave thing to do for the real citizens of this country." He lit his pipe, took a few puffs, then continued, "I'm taking you for a real he-man who will fight to the finish for law and order. And, I'm telling you, it takes a brave man to buck the lawless element--the Innocents Gang. As a committee of one I welcome you to Lewiston and the great Northwest Territory. It's men like you who are going to make history in the founding of this great empire."
For a full moment neither spoke, but Bainbridge was doing some thinking. Here was a real man; a man who could see farther than the mad rush for gold. Here was an empire-builder. In those distant diggings he could see the shadows of coming cities, factories, farms, and homes, housing a million contented people. The vision of the future quickly disappeared at Pat Ford's next words.
"I've called a meeting of the real citizens in my saloon tonight. I'm trying to get them to organize a vigilance association. It may be a long time before we can get law and order established out here. We had to do it in California, you know.
"Of course I'm taking a chance, for I don't know who belongs to the Innocents Gang and who don't. Men who lift a finger against them have a habit of disappearing from the earth for good."
"Then why worry about it?"
He turned from the window. "Someone's got to do it," he said seriously. "You see, only a day or two ago, old man Hildebrandt, a decent harmless competitor of mine, was brutally robbed and murdered. These outlaws must be caught and brought to justice. Someone must take the lead. I'm not asking you to come, but we'll meet tonight." He paused, then continued, "While you are in town I want you to occupy the room upstairs. I'd like you to meet my wife at supper."
Bainbridge stood up, and Ford followed him to the door. "Thanks, Ford," he said gratefully holding out his hand. "There are not enough outlaws in the Northwest Territory to keep me from that meeting; and I'll make sure my holsters don't stick!"
"That's fine! I'll see you later," Ford smiled.
Bainbridge left the office and started for the front door with the intention of bringing his bag from the hotel. His quick eye took in the barroom at a glance. The place was clouded with blue tobacco smoke from the pipes of the rough-looking men at the card tables. The brazen painted women were not new to him as they danced and drank with young and bearded men. Again as he looked, an expression of disappointment came over his face.
Then he caught sight of Maxwell. He was sure the gambler had followed him from Cleveland's saloon. He was talking with a man wearing a silk hat and a white vest. Almost at the same moment he was accosted by a girl with blond hair and baby face who, under the paint, was wrinkled and looked old. She drew his attention from the men who interested him. When he finally got rid of her he found himself facing the man with the silk hat. Maxwell had disappeared. The stranger was contemplating him with a queer smile, while he toyed with the lower button of his white vest.
"Looking for someone, stranger?" On the surface the stranger's voice was affable enough.
"Yes!"
"Maybe I can help you. Who is it?"
"I don't know yet, but I'll find out."
"I'm Ebb Cleveland. Come up and wet your whistle."
With difficulty he smothered his desire to refuse the invitation, but not wishing to make an enemy of the man before he knew more about him, he accepted.
"Going out to take up a claim, stranger?," Cleveland asked suavely.
"I'm not so sure, Cleveland. I aim to hang around here until I get my bearings. Here, barkeep, another whiskey. Now, before you ask any more questions, my name is Pokerface Bob Bainbridge--and I don't play poker!"
Cleveland's face set into hard lines for an instant as the two men stared at each other. Finally, with a sneer, he pushed his untouched glass aside. "I got you!" he said, as his hand began toying with the button on his vest again.
Bainbridge had no good reason for wanting to shoot this man, but he instinctively hated the soft-mouthed hypocrite. He was standing squarely on his feet waiting for that hand to slip from the button to the holster at his armpit. But the man seemingly thought better of it.
"I have a feelin', Pokerface, that our paths'll cross again. Come over to my shindig sometime and play checkers. I got a lotta gran'pas over there who'll be glad to take you on if you can't play poker!"
"Never fear, Cleveland. I'll drop in, all right!"
For the first time Bainbridge discovered that he and the gambler were standing alone. Prospectors and women alike had retreated to places of safety. It was easy to understand what they expected.
"Now, let me give you some advice, Pokerface. This is an unhealthy country for the gent who totes dead men in and makes charges. We got all the dead men here we got time to bury."
"I'll remember the tip, Cleveland, but I'm not making any promises," Bainbridge retorted coldly.
Cleveland whirled about. In doing so he upset a cuspidor. With a curse he kicked the offending brass jar half way across the room. A titter of laughter followed, which stopped as quickly as it started when he turned upon them menacingly. Dead silence followed. For a moment he glared savagely at the onlookers without moving a muscle. Then he turned and stalked from the room.
It was easy to see that Cleveland had the town bluffed. Bainbridge knew too that the man was dangerous, and would sooner or later attempt to avenge the humiliation he'd suffered. Bainbridge had made another deadly enemy. Of one thing he was certain, Maxwell and Cleveland were working together, whoever the other members of the gang might be. Well, he was not afraid to face trouble, but he didn't relish the idea that he might be cut down from behind.
Hearing the commotion in the barroom, Pat Ford came in. "What's going on here, Bainbridge?" he asked excitedly.
Bainbridge smiled. "Nothing," he answered. "Just been getting a little advice from your friend Cleveland."
Ford became serious. "Too bad," he remarked with deep concern on his face. "That man's a bad actor. You're liable to hear from him again."
"That doesn't bother me," Bainbridge belittled. "I've a feeling that he's cooking up something for himself. I was going over to the hotel for my bag."
"Never mind, Bainbridge. I'll have one of the boys fetch it. It's almost time for supper."
They walked up the main street south. On either side of them were tent houses, the lights from which served as street lights. The five or six saloons were going full blast. It was more like a modern carnival than a real city. Through the open windows Bainbridge could see them weighing out gold dust in exchange for drinks. There was laughter, song, quarreling, the whine of fiddles, and dancing.
Ford was quiet, like a man worried and weary. A couple of hundred yards up the street they turned to the right through an alley to a neat log cabin, the home of Patrick Ford. It was the most pretentious of any in town. It actually boasted glass windows, freighted in from California. The doors and frames were made of whipsawed lumber.
Even at a distance Bainbridge could detect the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon. If he had been shocked with the crudeness of the town and its rough inhabitants he was stunned at what he found inside this pioneer home. Mrs. Ford was young, hospitable, and, in comparison with the women he'd seen in town, she was very beautiful.
Her hair was just plain auburn. There was nothing striking in her slightly upturned nose or her soft brown eyes, but her smile was an inspiration.
A little girl of five, the replica of her mother's gentleness, was sitting at the dinner table anxious for the business of eating. She began excitedly reciting to her father her childish adventures of the day. All during the appetizing meal she chattered, nor did she cease until her mother tucked her in her crib.
Bainbridge was doing some serious thinking. It seemed as though he had always known these good people. He felt indeed like one of the family. He said to himself: "Here is a real citizen, the kind who makes history." His purpose was not a shot in the dark at the pot of gold; he was rooted to the very soil. Everything about his home had the appearance of stability and purpose. Even the crude whipsawed furniture bespoke the sturdiness of its maker.
After the light conversation of the meal they pushed back their chairs, and Ford addressed his wife seriously.
"Clara, I don't know what time I'll get in tonight. We are going to have that mass meeting at last."
Bainbridge caught the look of fear that came into her eyes at her husband's words, but it vanished almost as quickly as it came.
"I hope something can be done, Patrick," she answered seriously. "I feel much depressed with the idea of bringing little Clara up in a place like this." Suddenly the fear came back to her eyes as she continued, " Isn't there danger in what you propose--isn't there, Mr. Bainbridge?"
Her husband answered, much to the relief of Bainbridge.
"There is always danger, my dear, so long as there is life. But we must face the problems bravely, for Clara's sake, as well as our own, to say nothing of those who will come after us."
"I think so too, Patrick," she assented quietly.
"You must stop and think too," Ford continued, "this wild rush for gold will pass. Then will come fields of golden grain and corn; homes, schools, and even churches will be built. Factories and water projects will come, and the law will be established. We are the pioneers. It is our solemn duty to make this a place of safety for our women and children. Soon, Lincoln will create the Territory of Bannock and appoint its officers to direct its affairs. Until then, my dear, we must be loyal."
* * * *
On their way back to the saloon where the meeting was to be held, Bainbridge spoke what was on his mind.
"Pat--you don't mind if I call you Pat?"
"Of course not. All my friends do."
Bainbridge walked in silence for a moment, trying to figure out how to begin. "Since I went into your home two hours ago I've been doing a deal of thinking. I'd never thought of things the way you put them. I do think, however, in one thing you are wrong. You say that the advent of law and order depends upon you. I have my doubts. Back there is your kingdom. Why take the chance and the responsibility? Already you have a lot of enemies because of your activities. You have love, wealth, and a family depending on you. Get out of here while you are able. Leave this business of building an empire to younger men, single men. Oh, I know what you're thinking. But suppose you are wiped out? Who'll suffer then? Not you, but that lovely little woman back there and that charming little daughter."
Ford shook his head. "If I am, then some good man will take up the work where I left off. They will do for me what I'm trying to do for them."
"That's a manly decision, but none the less serious. You told me that there was only one thing on earth that the Innocents Gang is afraid of and will kill to prevent."
"Yes"' answered Ford, "the organization of the Vigilantes."
"Then, for her sake, don't take the chance. Let me take your place."
"Can't be done, Bainbridge. I can't permit a stranger who has no personal interest to come in and fight my battles. I appreciate your loyalty, my friend, but I can't leave it to you unless I'm wiped out."
Realizing the futility of argument, Bainbridge dropped the subject, but not without misgiving. Little did Ford know that their purposes were much akin.
They arrived at the saloon ahead of the time set for the meeting, but it was not long until men began to drop in by two's and three's. Thirty minutes later there were about thirty rugged serious men present.
Ford was ill at ease and leaned over to Bainbridge. "Look out for trouble. We don't know how many of these men are with us. It is certain that a part of them belong to the Innocents. I notice several personal friends of Hen Plummer."
Bainbridge nodded understanding, glancing about trying to read the quiet faces of these bearded men. Meanwhile he was asking himself, who were these men? How many would support the Vigilance Committee, and what would be the result of this meeting?
Ford stood up. "Men," he began seriously "the purpose of this meeting is to consider whether we are going to live in league with lawlessness or whether we are going to organize and put a stop to murder, plundering, and robbery."
Men shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, exchanging serious glances.
"You know," Ford continued, "what has happened as well as I do, and right under our noses, too, while we have been powerless to prevent it. We have no record of the appalling murders that have been committed in this country. But you do remember at least three incidents that should cause any true American to blush for shame for permitting them."
The panorama of faces was a puzzle of reactions at his words. Into some came the look of hatred, desperation, and murder. Others were gray with fear. Still others were seriously somber. Bainbridge, sensing what was coming, shifted his chair quietly into the corner where he could get a clear view of the room.
"Many of you have argued that it is not only dangerous but impossible for us to do anything, because we don't know where to begin. Well, here's a starting point. You remember six or seven months ago when a certain man by the name of Foxy Diamond came into our town, bringing with him a beautiful woman. He soon tired of her, bet her on a card game and lost her to Cherokee Bob. Cherokee abused her until he was finally shot at Florence. This woman was found dead a few days later. The last time she was seen alive she was with Three Finger Smith, one of the worst highwaymen who ever hit this territory."
Bainbridge's face was contorted from the raging tumult within. His body seemed a cold dead thing of fury. His hands were gripping the arms of his chair within an inch of his holsters. Suddenly the room seemed to disappear. Before him appeared the scarred face of Three Finger Smith. He ground his teeth, muttering to himself, "God! I saw him at the shindig and didn't wipe him out!" Vaguely he heard the voice of Ford still speaking. Already half the men had failed him and left the room. Still he held on desperately.
"Yesterday, the body of Raymond Patterson, a mere boy, was brought into town. He had been murdered by some member of this same gang Think of it, men! This boy wasn't even heeled! The lad, in his dying breath, accused Three Finger Smith of firing the shot that did for him!"
At this juncture Cleveland stepped out from the corner where he had been standing. His manner was affable enough. He addressed the men in a cool manner, yet Bainbridge felt that it was costing him an effort.
"Men!" he began, "I'm as interested in stamping out crime as Pat Ford is, but I'm not in favor of this Vigilante business. In the first place, when we do this we openly charge that we haven't got any law and order. It'd be an insult to the deputies in Walla Walla. I admit we've had some bad killings, but no more than any other camp in this territory. I propose we send a committee to Walla Walla and demand the deputies try and run down the murderers who Pat claims are operating in the country hereabouts."
Pat Ford sprang to his feet again. "You know we did that very thing before, Cleveland, and you know nothing was ever done!"
Cleveland interrupted, "You know, Pat, I don't think there is an organized band of outlaws in this territory. The idea of the Innocents is gossip that seeped through from Rattlesnake country beyond the Lolo Pass. If there isn't any organized band, then we don't need a Vigilante Association, and if there is--then every one of the little Vigilante members would be marked for death."
Bainbridge was thinking fast. Cleveland's opposition was too obvious. Had he not been convinced from his own personal experience with the man, his speech was enough to condemn him. From the looks of the men he knew that Cleveland was surely gaining their sympathy and something must be done or the project would fail.
Cleveland was toying with the button on his vest. His sharp eyes were watching every move in the room. "You're not going to give any credit to the story of the stranger who brought the Patterson kid in yesterday, that the kid professed that Three Finger Smith shot him? Why, I have two men who rode in on the same stage who openly say there was no truth in what he says. I'm prepared to brand that story as a lie!"
Instantly Bob Bainbridge was on his feet. Men ducked. Cleveland's hand slipped to his armpit; his blue steel gun flipped into his hand. But not quick enough. Bob's gun roared and Cleveland's gun spun through the air. There was a mad rush for the door; men fighting, pushing, pawing. Cleveland disappeared with the rest.
Pat sank into his chair. Bob sheathed his gun and turned to Ford.
"Pat, that woman you mentioned was my sister!" Pat gasped, unable to speak. "There is a Vigilance Committee, and, by God, Pokerface Bob is it!"