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 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 A Story of Salmon River Gold) 
 
 E. MANCHESTER BODDY 
 
 TIMES -MIRROR PRESS 
 10S ANGELES 
 
Copyright, 1922 
 
 by 
 
 Times- Mirror Press 
 Los Angeles, California 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
HI 
 
 y 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 To Mrs. Theodore Keehn, whose untiring 
 efforts during the late world war provided so 
 many books for blind soldiers, this book is 
 affectionately dedicated. 
 
 ......... 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 DKTER ALDEN, JR., drifted into Moapa, 
 * Montana, with the first November snow. 
 The town was cold and already dark when he 
 faced its long, half-deserted streets that barely 
 separated snowed-in houses and ended in a trad 
 ing center dismal and dreary in the pale yellow 
 of street lights. 
 
 The frigid aspect of the night meant little 
 to Pete as he leaned against the wind and 
 walked defiantly into it. His skin was stung 
 with cruel biting lashes, and he wanted it so. 
 Perhaps it would deaden the infernal gnawing 
 of his conscience. It would punish him out 
 wardly, anyhow, and that would help. He 
 pressed on. Long into the night he fought his 
 way from one deserted street to another, re 
 tracing his steps a dozen times. Try as he 
 would, however, he could not shake his tor 
 mentor from him. In desperation he challenged 
 it to bear witness to his self-inflicted punish 
 ment. It scoffed at him. "No use trying," he 
 muttered, and stopped short. The warm light 
 of a saloon flooded the frozen sidewalk. With 
 faltering step and heavy heart he turned, faced 
 the door, and let the wind hurl him into the 
 refuge of sickening smoke and stale liquor. No 
 
8 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 use fighting when the man within you turns 
 enemy ! 
 
 Pete looked about him and thanked God 
 he knew no one in Moapa, that he didn t have 
 to smile, apologize, or explain to anyone. So 
 far as the two dozen or so loafers about him 
 knew, he had a perfect right to be there ! He 
 sank into a three-legged low-seated chair and 
 hoisted his feet to the rail about the stove. 
 
 For a few moments he stared, as though 
 fascinated, at the dull red spots on the heater. 
 
 "Hello there, young feller, have a drink." 
 
 Pete looked into a coarse repulsive face. 
 He didn t like the man. At any other 
 time he would have refused to drink with him. 
 But now, he had no judgment. If he had, why 
 was he here? When had his judgment ever 
 guided him aright? Never! He would play 
 it just the opposite from now on! Anyhow, 
 was there a human too low for him to drink 
 with? If there was, he d like to meet him! He 
 would drink with this man, with any man, as 
 long as his money lasted! So declaring, he 
 rose from his seat and strode toward the bar, 
 where the stranger stood, hat pushed back on 
 his head and his fingers beating an idle tattoo 
 on the heavy oak. 
 
 "Thanks, stranger, I ll be glad to" Pete s 
 greeting seemed a trifle mechanical and he 
 added, "Rotten night, isn t it?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 9 
 
 "Oh, not so bad, not so bad. Spect this 
 here, ya know. Stranger in these parts?" 
 
 Pete hesitated, "Well, rather, I m from 
 farther west. Let s drink." 
 
 "Knew you wasn t a scissor-bill," the man 
 apologized. "You look good enough to drink 
 with me." 
 
 Pete winced. 
 
 "Whiskey," they ordered together. 
 
 The first drink only aggravated matters. 
 More followed. Within an hour Pete found 
 himself in the center of a half dozen or so 
 drunken loafers. The more he drank, the more 
 he felt himself to be one of them. Raising his 
 glass and with bitter sarcasm accentuated by the 
 drooping corners of his mouth, he proposed a 
 toast: 
 
 "Here s to what I ought to be," and he 
 poured half his liquor into the gutter by the 
 bar, "and here s to what I am, the rottenest one 
 of you all !" and he drained his glass. Whiskey, 
 drink after drink, from a coarse brown bottle 
 followed. As he drank, he talked. Something 
 in his manner and speech convinced the man 
 who first spoke to him that the stranger from 
 "further west" might be worth knowing better. 
 Gently, but surely, he separated Pete from the 
 crowd and made for a warm corner behind the 
 stove. 
 
 "Stranger, you re gettin drunk," he began. 
 
10 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "My name s Garret, Buller Garret. Some of 
 em calls me Bull, but that s only because my 
 front name s Buller. I ain t so bad as I looks. 
 I know you didn t sort of go crazy about me 
 when I braced you here awhile back. But that s 
 all right. You re packin a lot of trouble round 
 with you, I can tell. Now jes suppose you 
 unload it on Buller. Why, damme, I ve had 
 more trouble than a mangy coyote and I allus 
 knows what to do. Now jes talk about it and 
 tell Bull, what say, hey, pardner?" 
 
 Pete needed no urging. For over two weeks 
 he had talked to no one. Buller s soft voice 
 came like music to his deadened senses and he 
 plunged hungrily into a drunken jabber. 
 
 "God," he began, "s been a long time since 
 I got cry cryin drunk, not drunk now, though. 
 Tha s one thing I won t do, ain t so sure, tho 
 Mebbe I ll I ll guess I ll get drunk. You 
 drunk, Bull Bull Bully? Ha! Ha! Ha, 
 Ha, Bully, tha s a good one, Bully tell me 
 Bull m I drunk?" 
 
 " Course not. You re jes goin to tell 
 your old pal, Buller, who you are an* all about 
 it, you re " 
 
 "That s right, Pete, tha s me. Peter Alden. 
 Bully an Peter, tha s good! Ha, ha! But 
 Peter ain t so good, ain t no good, an* Peter 
 knows it. All of em know it. It s no go, 
 Bully, s no go. I m a bad lot to hang around 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 11 
 
 with; know who I am? Peter Alden! Peter 
 Alden, Jr. heavy on the jar. Old man 
 Alden s worthless son, San Francisco, tha s the 
 place, damn The City. Old man s got a bank 
 there, got lots of banks. Needed em to keep 
 Peter J-a-r goin . Old Man s . . ." 
 
 The bad whiskey and warm foul air wilted 
 Peter s brain, and he sank helplessly to the 
 floor. Duller wanted to hear more, but ex 
 perience told him Pete was through talking. 
 He winked heavily for the barkeeper. 
 
 "Slip me a coupla blank checks. Got a live 
 one. He ll think he s signin up at the Club. 
 Old man s a banker Frisco way, too; cinch, 
 mor n likely lost son. Nice boy; we re sorry, 
 
 ain t we?" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 In San Francisco, Peter Alden, Sr., bank 
 president and financier, with far flung interests 
 throughout the Pacific Northwest, paced the 
 deep carpet of his private office. His face was 
 haggard and his strong, broad shoulders, or 
 dinarily carrying fifty-five years with the grace 
 of youth, sagged forward helplessly. During 
 his many years of active business life he had 
 often been called upon to face stern facts. Al 
 ways his judgment had been tempered with 
 justice and humane principles, and he had won 
 praise for many things. But to him, most 
 gratifying of all, next to his reputation for ab- 
 
12 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 solute honesty and justice, was the love and 
 esteem of his friends, of whom he counted 
 many. One, in particular, old Judge Stivers, 
 John, he called him, had been for twenty years 
 his constant companion and adviser. 
 
 He was waiting for the Judge now as he 
 paced nervously back and forth. Presently the 
 door opened and a thin, slightly stooped man 
 of sixty entered. His grey beard and mustache 
 formed a perfect van dyke, quite in keeping 
 with his well-groomed appearance generally. 
 
 "Good morning, John. Sit down." Alden 
 indicated a chair near his desk and finished his 
 course across the room. 
 
 The Judge seemed entirely aware that 
 something unusual was in the air. "What s the 
 trouble, Peter? What s wrong?" 
 
 "It s he," Alden pointed to a large framed 
 picture on his desk. "He s gone; ugly rumors 
 about town." 
 
 "But you told me only two days ago every 
 thing was settled!" 
 
 "Yes, settled for two days. Here are the 
 papers just as I fixed them." Alden tapped a 
 heap of matter before him. "These are bills, 
 thousands of dollars. I arranged privately to 
 pay them, on condition that the creditors would 
 continue to demand payment from him. Only 
 way to do it, John. I arranged a position for 
 him as cashier with the Pacific Central lines. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 13 
 
 He wouldn t work for me. The girls, yes * * 
 here are the letters. Settled them all. Damn 
 vampires! But everything was straight as a 
 die, John, just as the boy told it to me, and 
 they couldn t deny it!" 
 
 The Judge looked mystified. All of this 
 he had heard before. 
 
 Alden caught the expression. His shoulders 
 came back with a snap and the old fighting 
 glint, the look that had made many a board of 
 rebellious directors come to terms, flamed in 
 his eye. His fist came down with a bang. 
 
 "John, my boy might be wild. He doesn t 
 know the value of money. He might and has 
 made mistakes with women, but my boy has 
 never lied to me, and he is not a thief! Alden s 
 voice thundered the last sentence out as he 
 threw a telegram before the astonished Judge. 
 
 John Stivers had never in twenty years 
 seen his friend assert himself so violently. He 
 quickly adjusted his glasses and read: 
 
 "Peter Alden, Sr., 
 
 Alden National Bank, San Francisco. 
 
 Your son missing all efforts to locate him have failed 
 safe robbed fifty thousand dollars looks bad advise 
 action at once. 
 
 Geo. Stone, Gen. Mgr., 
 Pacific Central Ry. Co." 
 
 Alden pulled up in front of the Judge and 
 waited. 
 
 "Well?" he thundered as the former laid 
 the message down and calmly placed his glasses 
 
14 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 in his pocket. "Well, well! You see that? 
 My God, man ! They ve called my son a thief ! 
 A thief! An Alden a thief! Missing, bah! 
 He gave me his word, I tell you; he can t be 
 missing ! A thief !" With the rage of a strong 
 man gone wild, Alden circled about, pounding 
 and stamping alternately. 
 
 The Judge grasped his first opportunity. 
 
 "Now, now, Peter," he urged, "I know 
 your boy. Why, I ve raised him as much as 
 you have. He s no thief, certainly not. There s 
 some mis " 
 
 "Mistake nothing!" thundered Alden. "It s 
 a lie. It s a trick! They re making a goat out 
 of an Alden. I ll have none of it. John, you 
 produce that boy! Call the detectives. Spend 
 money; you know how to do it. But get that 
 boy!" 
 
 "Quiet, Peter, quiet. Don t lose your 
 head; if there s crooked work here, all the 
 more reason to be calm. There s lots of time. 
 Come, sit down." 
 
 Reluctantly, Alden gave way to utter ex 
 haustion and sank into his chair. "What can 
 we do, John, what can we do? I m all broken 
 up. Couldn t sleep last night. Felt something 
 was wrong with Peter. Something awfully 
 wrong, John." 
 
 A secretary knocked timidly at the door. 
 The Judge bade her enter, and took a special 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 15 
 
 delivery letter from her hand. Both men recog 
 nized the handwriting at the same instant. 
 Alden reached for it with savage eagerness, 
 tore it open, and read: 
 
 "Dear Dad: 
 
 By this time you ve had the truth. God knows I ve 
 done enough in the past to kill your trust. Now I ve 
 broken my word. I don t care about the money. I 
 knew you paid the bills, as you always do. Where 
 I m going it won t cost you anything. I m just worth 
 less, Dad, just worthless. I might be a man some day, 
 I m not promising any more. But if I ever am, I ll 
 come back. Until then, I only hope you won t be hurt 
 too much. Think the best you can of me under the 
 circumstances. Never mind where I m going. I don t 
 know. 
 
 Your loving son, 
 
 Peter." 
 
 Without a word Alden passed the letter to 
 his friend. For fully a minute neither spoke. 
 
 Alden was first to break the silence. His 
 face was blanched, his voice weak with evident 
 pain, and poorly concealed emotion. He 
 placed a trembling hand on the shoulder of 
 his friend. 
 
 "John," his voice shook as he spoke, "fix 
 the papers. He isn t my son any more. Stop 
 the news if you can. Don t mention his name 
 anymore. You understand? I m I m going 
 out now. Good-bye, John. Come to the house 
 tonight. I ll be alone there now." 
 
 "Peter, do you value the word of an old 
 friend? Listen, your boy did not could not 
 wait Peter. Listen, I can prove it, I can " 
 
16 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "John, you have his letter. That settles 
 it. Don t mention it again. Please, John, don t 
 mention it again. Good-bye." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 on, you! Whadda think this is, 
 free lodgin joint? Come on, outside, 
 bum! Outside!" 
 
 Pete stared blankly. Bum? Outside? He 
 blinked reflectively. Someone was rudely 
 kicking the soles of his feet! He drew them 
 under him and sat up. A burly roustabout 
 hung over him. 
 
 "Well, keep movin , keep movin . Can t 
 live here! Been sleepin all night now; come 
 on, outside!" 
 
 Slowly Pete roused himself. The room 
 seemed strange, nothing familiar greeted him, 
 and it was horribly dirty. He staggered un 
 steadily to his feet. His stomach felt sick and 
 his head ached. Many lights, with strange 
 colors, danced before his eyes. He apologized 
 to the roustabout and started uncertainly for 
 the bar. 
 
 "Got any money?" the barkeeper growled 
 as he approached. 
 
 Pete fumbled foolishly at a pocket. 
 Nothing came out. He tried another, nothing 
 there. 
 
 "Guess not. Where am I?" 
 
 " Bout three jumps this side of the hoos- 
 
18 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 gow. Here, drink this." The bartender 
 shoved a hot whiskey toward him. 
 
 Pete gulped it down and started for the 
 door. The sun cast a sickly light through the 
 murky window panes. Outside a boy was 
 shouting, "Moapa Press Sunday morning pa 
 per All about the Pis-siffic Central robbery." 
 
 "Pacific Central," "Moapa," the words 
 hung in Pete s fevered brain. A new feeling 
 came into his stomach. "Great safe robbery 
 morning paper five cents, thanks mister, 
 mornin paper. Oh, ho-o-o !" 
 
 Pete tried to think, as he made again for 
 the door. A paper, that was it he wanted 
 a paper, of course. Again he fumbled at his 
 pocket. No money. His head was clearer 
 now. Perhaps he could find a paper in the 
 saloon. He turned about and commenced an 
 unsuccessful staggering search about the room. 
 
 The little Moapa Press, with feature stories 
 always several days, sometimes a week late, 
 could have given Pete real news. There, 
 within his grasp, had been a sensational story 
 of an unknown thief who stole fifty thousand 
 dollars from a cashier s safe, his safe, on the 
 very night he had so mysteriously disappeared. 
 Clouded as his brain was, it would have been 
 stunned into drastic action by the thought of the 
 effect the incriminating news must have on his 
 father. But the newsboy and his shouting 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 19 
 
 moved on down the street. Pete, after several 
 unsuccessful rounds in the immediate proximity 
 of the bar, forgot the paper. 
 
 The little saloon began to teem with men. 
 Men of a different stamp than the loafers of 
 the night before. Brisk, energetic men of the 
 hills and plains! Pete was forgotten in the 
 throng, and as his head and eyes cleared, and 
 his walk became steadier, he envied the open 
 laughs and hearty handshakes about him. How 
 strong and sturdy the men seemed in their huge 
 coon and bear skin coats ! Wistfully, he 
 searched for someone in the crowd to whom 
 he could measure up. He had the frame yes, 
 he was even taller than most of them. He 
 caught a glimpse of his face in the dirty mirror 
 behind the bar and turned disgustedly from the 
 sickly white thing he saw. He looked at his 
 feet. Soft thin shoes, all right for the Blue 
 Bird Cafe. A disgrace here! He tried to 
 hide them. 
 
 The mirror, magnet-like, again drew his 
 eyes. A dirty white collar! The only one in 
 the room ! A necktie ! No wonder the bar 
 keeper had ordered him thrown out. He 
 sulked to the back of the room. Here a lunch 
 counter was doing a rushing business. The 
 savory odor of frying meat and boiling coffee 
 drew him on. Every stool was occupied. Steam 
 ing stacks of hot-cakes, ham and eggs, sausage, 
 
20 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 steaks, fried onions and potatoes were emerging 
 from the long low stove in miraculously 
 large quantities. Thick bowls of steaming 
 coffee were shoved across the counter with 
 every order. 
 
 Pete slid onto the first vacant stool. 
 
 "Eggs soft toast coffee," he ordered. 
 
 The waiter looked him over and growled 
 insultingly. "Let s see your money." 
 
 Pete shrank back in confused humiliation. 
 The waiter hadn t asked this of anyone else ! 
 Peter Alden, Jr., alone asked to show his 
 money before he could eat breakfast in the 
 back end of a saloon ! The thought maddened 
 him. For two weeks he had condemned, vili 
 fied and insulted himself. Now for the first 
 time in his life another man dared do it! In 
 an instant the Alden flash mingled with blood- 
 shots in his eye. Something hot rushed up his 
 spine, swept his head and flushed his face. The 
 waiter wavered before the menacing glare. 
 
 "You damn hound! Come over here and 
 you ll be passin out eggs in hell ! Come out, 
 I say, before I crawl over and drag you out!" 
 
 Pete s knees sought the edge of the counter 
 as his long arms shot out. Then as his fingers 
 sank deep into bushy hair, he snapped out a 
 curse, braced his knees, and yanked. With 
 frenzied strength he slammed the man s head, 
 face down, against the hard oak counter. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 21 
 
 Three times he smashed the face into it before 
 two roustabouts sprang upon him from behind 
 and dragged him the full length of the room 
 and out into the street! 
 
 Badly shaken and dizzy, still trembling 
 with rage, he scrambled up. Drifted snow had 
 kept the door open a few inches. Loud voices 
 sounded within. 
 
 "You talked to a man that time, Fat." 
 
 "Who said that feller was a stew?" 
 
 "Looks like the goods to me, he does." 
 
 "Tell him to come in and have a drink." 
 
 "Lay off im, barkeep. Fat called him first; 
 I m inviting him in." 
 
 The door opened and a bronze faced fig 
 ure in heavy furs stepped out and spoke to 
 him. 
 
 "Stranger, I m Brud Hawkins, sort of 
 native round here. Come in and be sociable. 
 Fat, in here, got you wrong. Sorry about it." 
 
 Pete liked the clean-cut look of the man. 
 
 "Guess I m a little wrong myself," he 
 apologized and walked first through the door. 
 
 Hawkins jerked a thumb at the bar. 
 
 "Thanks," Pete hesitated. "Guess I m 
 through drinkin like to be sociable, though." 
 
 "Fair enough. A man can t drink all the 
 time." Hawkins observed the undeniable evi 
 dence of Pete s all-night drunk. "Eat?" 
 
22 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Pete looked at the counter. A new waiter 
 was on the job. 
 
 Thanks." 
 
 Then he ordered, "Eggs, soft toast, cof 
 fee." 
 
 * * * * 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 TV/TOAPA had long been the peaceful trading 
 * -* center of the Salmon River Valley. 
 Founded originally by a horde of adventurous 
 gold hunters, it still presented the appearance 
 of a typical Western mining town. For years 
 past, however, the fertile valley in which it 
 stood had gradually yielded its wooded land 
 to the aggressive march of logging camps and 
 sawmills. Ranchers, too, mostly cattle and 
 sheep men, followed the lumber men, and not 
 a small portion of the winter population of 
 Moapa was now made up of these. 
 
 After the early rush for gold had come and 
 gone only the activities of placer miners in 
 Salmon Tooth Gulch remained to give to 
 Moapa its rugged, picturesque population. 
 Gulch Creek, cutting its way through gorges 
 and valleys, came roaring through the very 
 center of the Saw Tooth Mountains, carrying 
 its winter cargo of ice and snow through dan 
 gerous gorge-like passes and finally out into 
 the Salmon River itself. 
 
 For years hundreds of hardy men with 
 sluice-boxes, pans, picks and shovels gathered 
 in gold from the rich gravel along this stream. 
 But of late years the shallow surface work of 
 
24 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 these hand laborers became less and less profit 
 able, and it finally became apparent that the 
 old method of gravel washing would have to 
 give way to machinery and modern dredges. 
 
 At least, so said the men behind the Sal 
 mon River Gold Co., Incorporated. These 
 promoters, foraging wolves far from the Wall 
 Street packs, had entered the peaceful moun 
 tains of the Salmon Tooth Gulch country with 
 flashy paper, a "fool s gold" new to the miners, 
 and with plausible schemes and enticing prom 
 ises. As a result, first one strategic concession 
 and then another was sewed up tight before 
 the wily operators showed their hand. Salmon 
 Tooth Pass, always dangerous, but the only 
 outlet to civilization the miners had, should be 
 made safe and always passable, they urged. 
 This required capital. The miners were scat 
 tered and divided. J. D. Browning, king of 
 promoters, beneficently undertook the task. 
 The pass was safe now, safely in the clutches 
 of the Salmon River Gold Company, Inc. 
 Slowly, but surely, the strong arm of capital, 
 directed by the hand of the same master, con 
 solidated the placer claims along the stream, 
 weeding out with ruthless regularity as it did 
 so, the hapless victims of its conquest. From 
 the first, resistance had been weak and scat 
 tered. Miners always had hard luck stones it 
 would seem, and when they brought pleas for 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 25 
 
 justice to Moapa, they were told to take their 
 grievances to the proper authorities. Yet at 
 the Government Land Offices new strange 
 faces greeted them. The city and county of 
 fices, too, were filled with strangers; and all 
 of them seemed to be interested only in the wel 
 fare of the Gold Company. Miners, real ones, 
 are prone to seek refuge in the hills, forgetting 
 the old diggings and hunting new ones. Hope, 
 millions just ahead, a grub stake and a new 
 claim, satisfy the most of them. 
 
 So it was with the placer miners along 
 Gulch Creek, and Browning, immaculate, suave, 
 seldom allowing himself to become identified 
 in the execution of his grasping schemes, felt 
 that he was approaching complete success. 
 His engineers reports indicated a near-mon 
 opoly of mining ground along the creek, which 
 meant fabulous wealth if used as the nucleus 
 of a great Wall Street promotion. Already he 
 had prepared glowing prospectuses for his 
 New York henchmen, who operated under the 
 name of Sharpe & Company, and these Wall 
 Street brokers had, in fact, begun to flood the 
 country with stock of the Salmon River Gold 
 Company. 
 
 u To hell with the gold," was Sharpe s mes 
 sage to Browning. "If we get it, so much the 
 better. Main thing, tie up all Salmon River 
 
26 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 claims. Remember, we can always mine the 
 public." 
 
 Browning, "J. D." he was called, under 
 stood. Salmon River was his discovery, at 
 least from the Wall Street point of view. "The 
 only gold-producing placer section in Montana 
 that can be monopolized" was his boast, and 
 he proposed to demonstrate it. 
 
 He had no doubt he could, but he winced 
 when he thought of the prospectuses, already 
 sent broadcast throughout the country, an 
 nouncing complete success. A disturbing pre 
 monition that he might have rushed things too 
 rapidly bothered him. An intangible uneasi 
 ness made him increasingly nervous and irri 
 table, until at last, in spite of heavy Saturday 
 night snow, the first of the coming winter, he 
 had scribbled a hasty summons to his engineer, 
 and ordered Slim Eliot, the breed, to deliver it 
 and produce the engineer for a conference the 
 following day. 
 
 It was late afternoon when J. D. bit into 
 his tenth cigar and ordered the meeting to busi 
 ness. At his right sat Peleg Demons engi 
 neer, and directly before him, Ern Houston 
 lawyer. 
 
 Both men shifted uneasily before the ap 
 parent ill humor of their chief. 
 
 Browning lost no time in preliminaries. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 27 
 
 Leaning toward Demons, he asked: "What s 
 left?" 
 
 Demons squirmed but answered shortly, 
 "Most of it." 
 
 "Most of hell man I m not asking if 
 you ve tied up all Montana. How many groups 
 are left on the stream?" 
 
 "One, but . . . ." Demons began. 
 
 "No buts; which one? Answer my ques 
 tion. How much mining territory is left up 
 that Gulch?" 
 
 "One group, the Dead Horse, twenty-five 
 claims, but it s not placer ground." 
 
 "Well, that s one. How many more?" 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Then, why the but 1 ?" 
 
 "The Dead Horse struck it rich, there s 
 gold there, solid veins of it. They ve struck 
 the mother lode. The Dead Horse is worth 
 more than all the placer ground we ve got." 
 
 At this astounding news Browning tried 
 hard to appear unconcerned, as he rolled his 
 cigar between his teeth and asked: 
 
 "Do they know it?" 
 
 "No. Only three men on the job there." 
 
 "Whose men?" 
 
 "Ours," Demons replied, and noted with 
 relief the hint of a smile that played on Brown 
 ing s face as he rose. 
 
 "All right, Demons," he added more cor- 
 
28 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 dially. "Keep it up. Leave the signing to 
 Houston here. You better go back now, and 
 cover up the strike. If anybody knows too 
 much " Browning shook his head mean 
 ingly, then added: "Remember, nobody knows 
 about this strike! Good-bye." 
 
 The two men waited until the sound of 
 Demons clattering boots was well down the 
 hallway, then Browning turned to Houston. 
 
 "Dead Horse, Dead Horse," he repeated 
 reflectively, "that ll be Brud Hawkins, won t 
 it?" 
 
 Houston nodded his reply. He seldom 
 spoke. 
 
 "Been working on him?" 
 
 The lawyer nodded again. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Can t budge him. Holding out on prin 
 ciple." 
 
 "Principles, hell; whoever heard of Brud 
 Hawkins having principles?" 
 
 "He s got em, J. D. he s got em." 
 
 "Try stock?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Money?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Threats?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Bluff?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 29 
 
 Browning repeated, this time ending with 
 a long drawn out, "Well?" 
 
 Silent Ern never bluffed until he had to. 
 It hurt deep to lose, and he was seldom hurt. 
 
 Again Browning repeated, "Well?" 
 
 "He offered to buy us out," Houston finally 
 confessed. 
 
 "What?" Browning sprang to his feet, 
 "You don t mean he can t you think Haw 
 kins knows what he s got up there?" 
 
 "No, but he thinks he s holding a trick at 
 that. And so do I." 
 
 "Come on, cut out this infernal mystery 
 stuff, Ern, what s he got what s his game 
 what can he do anyway, damn mountain gopher 
 God, man, do you realize what this means 
 to us?" 
 
 Houston nodded. 
 
 Browning sat down, puffed and thought. 
 
 For five silent minutes his cigar melted like 
 the sand in an hour-glass, until with character 
 istic decision he ended his meditation by bang 
 ing a clenched fist on the table before him. 
 Then with the precision of the master executive, 
 he reached for the phone and ordered a con 
 nection. 
 
 "Salmon Tooth Pass, give me Jenkins," he 
 snapped into the receiver. 
 
 Two minutes more and the bell rang. 
 
 "Hello, Jenkins? Browning speaking. 
 
30 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 How s the pass? All right? Well, listen and 
 get this right. This snow s going to wreck the 
 pass tonight. Quit snowing there, you say? 
 Fool, I said the pass would be wrecked tonight. 
 Let only J. D. men thru. Got it? All right, 
 good-bye." 
 
 Browning ordered another connection. The 
 bell rang sooner this time. 
 
 "Hello! Gold Nugget Saloon? J. D. 
 talking. Want to see Buller Garret, right away. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 As Browning hung up the receiver, he 
 turned to Houston with an air of finality and 
 said: "Ern, something tells me this is going to 
 be a fight. Hawkins assessment work isn t 
 done, of course?" 
 
 Houston shook his head. "Not only done, 
 but the claim s patented." 
 
 "Claim s patented? How can it be?" 
 Browning groaned in utter exasperation. 
 "Didn t the land office bring it to you for 
 O. K?" 
 
 "No, it slipped through somehow. Don t 
 think there s been any double crossing, though, 
 just slipped through." 
 
 "Now, that s that fool native son of an as 
 sistant down there that you sent in for policy s 
 sake!" Browning stormed. "Get him out of 
 there, Ern, get him out of there ! Damn your 
 fool policy stuff!" Footsteps sounded in the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 31 
 
 hallway, and Browning lowered his voice. 
 "Here comes Garret. Better leave me alone 
 with him, Ern. I ve got some orders for Bull 
 that might start you on your policy work 
 again." Houston bit his lip. He had wit 
 nessed many a withering assault of sarcasm 
 descend on others, but never before had he felt 
 its sting. Browning caught the feeling in an 
 instant, and changed the tone of his voice as 
 he continued : 
 
 "Forget it, Ern, I m all upset. I didn t 
 mean it. You ve been with me five years now. 
 First time you ever thought the other fellow 
 had a chance. No wonder I m upset." 
 
 Browning, the actor, paused a moment to 
 pat silent Ern Houston on the shoulder. That 
 moment was enough. 
 
 From the changed expression one would 
 have thought Houston would change places 
 with Bull, the gangster, rather than incur the 
 lasting enmity of his chief. He smiled affec 
 tionately and left. 
 
 For the first time Garret entered the room 
 without knocking. With narrowed eyes Brown 
 ing appraised him as he came jauntily up to 
 the desk and helped himself to a chair beside 
 it. Buller s greeting was loud and cheerful. 
 Browning ignored it. 
 
 "Been gambling?" Browning s words 
 sounded more like a conclusion than a question. 
 
32 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Where did you get it?" 
 
 "Get what?" 
 
 "Money cash the stake ." 
 
 "I ain t gotta stake, whaddaya mean 
 money?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, you have. Bums like you don t 
 get so cocky when they re broke. Come on, 
 out with it, what have you been doing?" 
 
 Bull fumbled at his fur hat and looked at 
 the carpet. "Honest, I haven t " 
 
 "Come on, hurry up, I want to talk to you. 
 Didn t you promise you wouldn t lie to me 
 any more? Talk fast now and get it out." 
 Browning whirled in his chair and began writ 
 ing. 
 
 Buller hesitated. How did J. D. know? 
 He must have eyes everywhere. 
 
 "Well," he commenced, fearing he had 
 already lost his chance to talk to the great 
 J. D. "Well, there was a bloke came into the 
 Gold Nugget, just a washed out bum, I thought, 
 but he got drunk and raved about his dad s 
 banks, and he slipped me a coupla checks, that s 
 all." 
 
 "That s something like it; where are they?" 
 
 Bull fumbled in his inside pocket and pro 
 duced two long pink slips of paper. 
 
 "What were you going to do with these?" 
 Browning asked disgustedly. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 33 
 
 "Cash em, if I needed it pretty bad, I 
 guess." 
 
 "Fool, tear em up. These things ll send 
 you up higher than a kite. I ought to have 
 you run in, right now, for it. Didn t I tell you 
 to keep out of this kind of stuff? One more 
 chance, Bull, that s all you get. Where s the 
 bird that signed them?" 
 
 Bull was completely crestfallen, as he an 
 swered, Dumbly, "Drunk, eating breakfast with 
 Brud Hawkins, last I saw him." 
 
 "Wait a minute, don t tear em up. Eating 
 with Brud Hawkins, was he?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "Give me those checks, Bull. On second 
 thought, I want to use them myself, to 
 send you up if necessary!" 
 
 Bull quavered and handed over the checks. 
 "Please Mr. Browning, please, I didn t mean 
 to use em, I didn t " 
 
 "Shut up! Listen. If it wasn t for me, 
 you d be in jail now, wouldn t you?" 
 
 Bull s head sank, and Browning continued. 
 
 "Well, I m still keeping you out. Why 
 did you think I sent for you today?" He 
 paused to let the question sink in, then went 
 on. "You say this bird was eating with Brud 
 Hawkins?" another pause, and then, "Well, 
 how did I know you pulled this trick?" Brown 
 ing s quick eye caught the gleam that came into 
 
34 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Buller s. u Huh, I ve concluded you re getting 
 stupid." 
 
 A sudden thought struck Bull : u You mean 
 to say, you mean you mean this Alden guy s 
 workin with Hawkins, that Hawkins is on my 
 trail again?" 
 
 "Now you re coming to life," Browning 
 eyed him significantly. 
 
 "Well, I m damned." Bull studied the 
 floor as he replied. "I thought he d/Iropped 
 houndin me long ago." 
 
 Browning, seeing how quickly he had gained 
 his point, continued : "Bull, I ve given you your 
 last chance. We ve cleaned your record three 
 times. If Hawkins digs up the old stuff against 
 you again, I m going to let you go up, that s all. 
 Police court s open Monday. This is Sunday. 
 It s you or Hawkins. Moapa won t miss 
 either of you very much. That s all I have 
 to say. So get out now. I ve tipped you off on 
 what s coming, and that s all I can do. / don t 
 want to harm anyone, but this thing s up to 
 you now tonight !" 
 
 Hat in hand, humiliation mingled with 
 anger reflected in every action, Buller walked 
 slowly out of the office and made for his gang 
 headquarters. 
 
 Browning smiled as his visitor left the 
 room; then settling down comfortably in his 
 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 35 
 
 spacious chair, he got Silent Ern on the phone. 
 "Hello, Ern! has Hawkins got any heirs? 
 well, if he has by any chance, get a line on 
 them, they might talk business." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 TV/JEN floundering in the dreary wilderness 
 ^ of self-condemnation and fading hope 
 are as sorely in need of rescuing as though lost 
 in the black depths of trackless jungles. 
 
 True, Peter Alden was not lost, though 
 certainly he had wandered far from the trail. 
 Fortunately for him he was still groping for 
 the way out; traveling in circles, perhaps, but 
 at least aware of swamps ahead and still faintly 
 hoping, believing he would somehow escape, 
 and come once more upon the highway of life, 
 of life as he dreamed it might be. 
 
 When Brud Hawkins invited him to break 
 fast in the rear end of the Gold Nugget Saloon, 
 he thought he was feeding a hungry man, and 
 so he was. But Pete s hunger could not be 
 satisfied with food alone. With a wistfulness 
 pathetic in its frankness and simplicity, he 
 looked deep into the soul of the man beside him. 
 
 Twice he hung over swallows of coffee as 
 though to break the embarrassing silence his 
 searching look had forced on his companion. 
 Hawkins found it difficult to talk to this man. 
 With none of the ready adaptability of city 
 people in him, he could not instantly shift from 
 expected small talk with a drifting drunkard 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 37 
 
 to the words so plainly expected by the man 
 who looked at him. 
 
 "Guess I want to know who you are, that 
 is, if you like," he announced at the end of an 
 evident appraisal. 
 
 "Peter Alden, Jr." 
 
 "With the Company?" 
 
 "What Company?" Pete seemed bewil 
 dered at the question. 
 
 "Seems there s only one The Company 1 ," 
 Hawkins replied, with a touch of bitterness in 
 his voice "The Salmon River Gold Company, 
 Incorporated." 
 
 "No." Peter shook his head listlessly. 
 
 "Just as well. Know you aren t from the 
 camps though. But then there s lots of stran 
 gers in Moapa these days. Run into them 
 most everywhere it seems." 
 
 Pete caught the air of finality in the words 
 and knew that the acquaintance which seemed 
 to hold so much in store for him would end, 
 unless he chose to talk. 
 
 For some reason, he seemed strangely at 
 tracted to this man, and for the first time in 
 weeks he persuaded himself to talk. Little by 
 little he unburdened his troubled heart, at 
 first talking only in monosyllables, with little 
 or no feeling. As his story progressed, how 
 ever, the kindly interest of the elderly moun- 
 
38 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 taineer drew him more and more into his sub 
 ject and out of himself. 
 
 "I didn t seem to be fitted for anything," 
 he went on. "First, for my father s sake, I 
 studied medicine. Then, I couldn t practice. 
 Oh, I guess I could, all right," he added as 
 though answering an expression on his compan 
 ion s face, "but I went to too many afternoon 
 parties . . . ." "No," again answering an un 
 spoken question "not the pink tea kind, 
 worse than that, for me, anyhow, for all they 
 talked of was New Thought, and the futility 
 of material things, and so on. Anyhow, I got 
 into it enough to lose interest in my profession, 
 so I quit." At this point he hesitated, his whis 
 key-weakened mouth still registering near de 
 spondency. "Of course," he went on, "this was 
 the least of it. I tried banking." His head 
 bobbed up and down a trifle as he mentioned 
 this; he looked queerly at Hawkins and asked: 
 
 "Suppose you know how awful capital is?" 
 Then without waiting for a reply, he continued. 
 
 "Well, it isn t; but that s what some more 
 friends, social reformers, this time, told me, 
 and for a year I tried to study their ideas, 
 and well I wanted really to do something in 
 the world. Sounds funny, doesn t it? Well, I 
 quit banking. You see, Mr. Hawkins, I had 
 everything, yet I really did want to do some 
 thing. I thought after I had tried most every- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 39 
 
 thing else, that maybe, belonging to all the 
 "ism s" and the societies that I d been studying 
 might help. Huh! Now, as I think of it, I m 
 not sure whether I know yet what all they were, 
 but they got me more muddled up than ever. I 
 actually thought that the human species was the 
 worst of all animals; that the whole world was 
 wrong, I was wrong, nothing mattered . . . ." 
 
 Thus Pete went on, describing himself as 
 one of the many men who become entangled in 
 a maze of false philosophy, until, by sheer 
 questioning of motives, analyzing of actions, 
 they first become egotistical of their own mental 
 ability, looking wisely out from their tower of 
 wisdom upon the foolish world that still works, 
 loves, eats and sleeps. Of men, who, having 
 passed through this stage of mental activity, 
 find nothing worth while in life, until they end 
 in losing respect for themselves and acquire 
 nothing but a lazy contempt for others. 
 
 He told Hawkins all, unburdening his heart 
 as though he could not halt the rush of words 
 that came to him. He described his affairs 
 with women; with one woman in particular, 
 one who, when he told her he thought he should 
 go back to work, had called him a u silly ass," 
 and ridiculed the idea. He had loved this 
 woman, he thought. 
 
 At length he ended his story, and as he did 
 so, a sudden thought came over him. This was 
 
40 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 the first time he had ever made a clean con 
 fession ! He had never spoken this way even 
 to his own father! Yet even as he spoke, he 
 knew somehow that he was nearing the path 
 his soul longed to tread. Where it was or how 
 his journey would start, he knew not. 
 
 Hawkins listened patiently as Pete talked, 
 considering well every word, and showing 
 plainly by the expression on his face how well 
 he understood the turmoil that had swept the 
 heart of the man who spoke. 
 
 As Pete concluded his story, Hawkins 
 tapped him gently on the shoulder. "My boy," 
 he said, u you feel better now, don t you?" 
 
 "Yes, much better, I don t know how to 
 explain it, either. God knows I ve done nothing 
 to justify it, but I do feel better, Mr. Hawkins, 
 much better." 
 
 "It s the telling it, son, it s the telling it. 
 I m a miner, and I don t know much about all 
 the things you mentioned, but as I see your 
 case, you ve been slipping down through soft 
 mud and slush, trying to hit hard-pan. Least 
 wise, that s how I would call it, and now, you 
 feel like you re on a rock bottom, isn t that it?" 
 
 "Good!" Pete smiled for the first time, 
 "that s good, and there s mud up to here," he 
 laughed, running his finger across his chin, 
 "but I ve struck bottom, that s it, I ve struck 
 bottom!" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 41 
 
 "You see," the old miner continued, "we re 
 all alike in the main, just like the hills; some s 
 faulted and some s slipped. Now take me. 
 I ve mined hereabouts for twenty odd years, 
 yet there s aplenty in Moapa who d say that I 
 haven t found my bearings yet. But / know 
 I have. 
 
 "Then there s that thought idea, you 
 was talking about. Now I believe in thinking. 
 That is, well, in using your brains. Take some 
 miners I know, who spend most of their time 
 figuring out the hows and whys of their tools; 
 yet they never have time to use them ! I hold 
 a man shouldn t be figgerin too much on the 
 how of his brains or his tools either, lest he 
 don t have time to use them! And he s liable 
 to get all muddled up and useless, too!" 
 
 Pete nodded his head in vigorous approval, 
 quietly ordering a third cup of coffee for Haw 
 kins, hoping it would hold him longer. 
 
 "But it s all had its use, my boy, it s all had 
 its use. Take me. I spent six years chasing 
 fool s gold before I learned how to prospect. 
 But I had to learn, you see. But, after all, it 
 ain t so much the getting of the learnin that 
 hurts, it s lettin the learnin get us that puts 
 us under !" 
 
 So saying, Hawkins pushed his coffee from 
 him, cleared his throat, and in an entirely new 
 manner, continued. 
 
42 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "And now, young man, what are you going 
 to do?" 
 
 "That s it," Pete replied, "what am I going 
 to do? I believe I will be happy to shovel 
 snow, anything. I m going to work, Mr. 
 Hawkins w-o-r-k. 
 
 "Good," the old miner patted him on the 
 shoulder again. "Have you ever been in the 
 hills?" 
 
 "Two summers and one winter, but that 
 was four years ago; roughed it, too. Only 
 thing I ve done that still feels good." 
 
 "All right; now do you want a real man- 
 sized job in the mountains for this winter?" 
 As he asked the question, Hawkins brought his 
 teeth together and elevated his chin, trying as 
 best he could to give the impression that he was 
 making strictly a business offer. 
 
 But Pete knew the open hearted, true blue 
 ring of altruism that prompted the offer. 
 
 "Do I?" he answered enthusiastically, "I 
 believe I d crawl there to get it." 
 
 "Not in those clothes." Hawkins eyes 
 traveled over the erstwhile regalia of a San 
 Francisco club man. 
 
 "Oh I didn t think, hell ! But I ll go any 
 way ; tell me how to get there ; I ll work around 
 town till I get the clothes." 
 
 "No need of that," Hawkins waved the 
 suggestion aside. "Let s talk business. I m 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 43 
 
 needing a sort of time-keeper and runner up 
 at the diggin s. Got a crew coming up next 
 week." 
 
 "Fine, I can do it!" Pete s eyes swept de 
 fiantly around the room. u just give me a 
 chance!" 
 
 U A11 right, son. Come over and get out 
 fitted. Better get aplenty, might not be coming 
 back for a coupla months; and remember, I m 
 not paying much. All the mining boys in 
 Moapa have been calling me a fool mountain 
 gopher for years, because I stick to the Dead 
 Horse Mine. Yes, that s where we re going, 
 to the Dead Horse. They all think there s 
 nothing there, but I ll show them." Then he 
 clenched his fists, bent close to Pete s ear and 
 whispered: "Don t talk any about it, but 
 they re the fools, every mother s son of em, 
 for trading their placer claims for Gold Com 
 pany stock. They don t think so. But old 
 Gopher Hawkins will be saving them from 
 ruin yet. I m holding a trick or two. There s 
 two or three Company men that ought to be in 
 jail, but it s too early yet. I m going to prove 
 that there s gold in the Dead Horse first, then 
 they will believe me!" Before he had finished 
 speaking, the two had passed quietly out of 
 the door. 
 
 As Pete greeted the cold street wind he was 
 conscious of a new feeling in his heart; his 
 
44 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 head seemed to seek a higher level than was 
 its habit of late. Even his eyes brightened 
 with the spark of new ambition; a spark that 
 might have been a fire but for the blear of 
 whiskey. 
 
 At the Moapa Trading Company, Haw 
 kins sought out Burton Smead, manager. 
 
 "Fix this young man up for the camp, 
 Smead, build him up from his hide out, gun 
 an all. Alden, did you say your name was?" 
 Turning to Pete. 
 
 "Pete, just call me Pete, please." 
 
 "Well, Pete, meet me at the Gold Nugget 
 at noon, we start for the pass at one." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A GAIN Pete s eyes sought the mirror be- 
 **- hind the Gold Nugget Bar. For the 
 first time in months he felt a tinge of genuine 
 pride as he appraised his snug coonskin cap, his 
 burly fur coat and heavy corduroy breeches, 
 tucked deep into high leather boots. 
 
 It lacked yet a half hour of being noon, 
 but he paced the length and breadth of the 
 room, impatiently awaiting the coming of Haw 
 kins. He had waited fully twenty minutes of 
 the time, when the door opened and a man, 
 made conspicuous by a shiny badge on his 
 breast and a gun that dangled at his side, 
 entered. Speaking a few words to the bar 
 tender, the stranger produced a small roll of 
 hand bills, tacked one of them on the wall, and 
 walked quietly out of the room. Nothing else 
 to do, Pete joined the curious throng to read. 
 
 One glance at the poster and Pete stared 
 in wide-eyed horror, as though transfixed! His 
 picture there before him! He, wanted for 
 burglary. A $5000.00 reward posted for him, 
 a runaway Pacific Central cashier! The wall 
 danced dizzily before his eyes. His stomach 
 contracted, and his heart leaped up into his 
 
46 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 chest. His knees shook as though they would 
 fall from under him ! 
 
 He, Peter Alden, Jr., a fugitive from 
 justice! "Great God!" he muttered, "what 
 next?" He feared to turn, lest the men on either 
 side might recognize him. The thought made 
 his hair bristle with fear. The whole thing was 
 wrong, horribly wrong. He tried to think 
 back. Fifty thousand dollars taken from his 
 safe ! He hadn t been near the safe the day he 
 left, and the money was there when he closed 
 it the day before ! Thoughts forebodings, 
 plans, helplessness raced through his brain in 
 the first panic of the moment. He noticed with 
 some relief that the men beside him didn t seem 
 interested, that they actually walked away. Out 
 of the corner of his eye he observed a strange 
 bar-tender at work. More boldly he viewed 
 the lunch counter. His enemy of the morning, 
 nose red and swollen, eyes discolored, was 
 there, but the noon rush kept him busy. 
 
 Hoping to gain the street unobserved, Pete 
 started, as naturally as possible, for the door. 
 Before he could reach it, however, Brud 
 Hawkins pushed it open, and called cheerily : 
 
 "Ready, Alden? Let s go." At the sound 
 of his name Pete imagined he felt the concen 
 trated stare of a half dozen pairs of eyes on his 
 back. He hurried through the door, and faced 
 the mountaineer. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 47 
 
 "I wouldn t have known you, boy. I 
 wouldn t have known you!" Hawkins ex 
 claimed, his admiring eyes moving slowly from 
 Pete s feet toward his head, when they met his 
 eyes, lingered a moment, then widened in as 
 tonishment. 
 
 "My God, man, what s wrong?" Pete met 
 the alarmed look of the miner with a straight 
 though badly startled stare. He moistened his 
 lips and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 "Inside, on wall, look." 
 
 Puzzled at the strange manner of his newly 
 made acquaintance, Hawkins frowned slightly 
 and walked through the door. 
 
 Feeling miserable beyond words, Pete 
 braced himself against the corner of the build 
 ing, determined to take the new blow, if it came, 
 as just so much more justly deserved punish 
 ment, and let matters run their course. 
 
 A moment inside and Hawkins came out. 
 Looking earnestly at Pete, he asked, "Well 
 boy, did you do it?" 
 
 Pete looked straight at him and answered, 
 "No." 
 
 "Then buck up, son, buck up. You look 
 like you might have murdered somebody in the 
 bargain. Come on, we re late, let s go." 
 
 Yet even as Hawkins said it, Pete s heart 
 welled with gratitude at the simple straight 
 forwardness of the man. He had known men 
 
48 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 for years, but could count on the fingers of one 
 hand those who would so quickly and whole 
 heartedly dismiss so serious a matter, and ac 
 cept their own judgment of him as final. 
 
 Hawkins, though, was doing far more than 
 this. He was still inviting Pete to accompany 
 him to the mountains; and Pete, unaccustomed 
 though he was to the open life of his new sur 
 roundings, quickly caught the unusual spirit of 
 comradeship that prompted Hawkins words. 
 Yet he hesitated long before he answered. 
 
 "No, I don t see how I can," he finally 
 stammered. "I don t care for myself, but 
 father, poor, dear old dad, it ll kill him, I m 
 sure it will kill him. I never dreamed of that," 
 waving a hand at the saloon, "when I left, I 
 never dreamed of it." 
 
 u Figurin you were back, could you prove 
 you didn t do it?" Hawkins asked, as he 
 grasped Pete by the arm as though to steady 
 him. 
 
 "No," Pete s words grew bitter, "I sneaked 
 away like a thief, I tell you, like a cur dog." 
 
 "Then it ll only add more trouble on your 
 father if you re brought back. Better tell him 
 you didn t do it, and come with me. He ll be 
 lieve you. Anybody would. You re not a liar. 
 Let things work themselves out. They most 
 always do, you know." 
 
 Pete hesitated, lingering so long in front of 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 49 
 
 the saloon, that Hawkins was at length forced 
 to remind him of the danger of recognition, a 
 circumstance which would take from him any 
 chance he might now have of shaping his own 
 course of action. Still uncertain and sick at 
 heart, Pete yielded to the urging of his friend, 
 and the two moved on toward the Moapa Trad 
 ing Co., at which place Hawkins assured Pete 
 he could write a letter, with nothing to fear 
 from the manager, Smead, who would keep his 
 own council regarding Pete s name. 
 
 True to his prediction, Smead took the 
 news solemnly, and assured both Hawkins and 
 Pete that he would keep his knowledge to him 
 self. 
 
 It was well after the hour appointed by 
 Hawkins to begin the journey, when Pete finally 
 emerged with a bulging envelope, addressed 
 and stamped. 
 
 Better not take it to the Post Office," 
 Hawkins advised. "There s sure to be more of 
 those tarnashioned posters there. Here s a 
 boy. Maybe he will take it to the depot and 
 put it right on the train, or do you think he ll 
 recognize the name?" 
 
 "No. It s addressed to someone else, to 
 Judge Stivers. The boy will do all right; here, 
 you give it to him." 
 
 A moment more, and Pete stood watching 
 the willing messenger go whistling merrily 
 
50 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 down the long street toward the depot. 
 
 "Isn t it wonderful, to whistle like that," 
 he mused half aloud to Hawkins, but more to 
 himself. "If I could 
 
 He chopped his sentence short and grasped 
 Hawkins by the arm. "Look; those two men; 
 they came out of the alley; they re walking to 
 the depot with him." 
 
 Hawkins eyes followed the trio now dis 
 appearing down the street as he remarked : 
 
 "I can t be sure, but one of em looks like 
 Bull Garret, but he s probably just snooping 
 around. He won t recognize the name on the 
 letter. Let s go." 
 
 Pete would have given much to have seen 
 the letter posted, but already he had imposed 
 far too much of his own troubles on his waiting 
 companion, and so he said nothing, but moved 
 off in the direction of the towering mountains 
 of the Saw Tooth Range, walking close at the 
 side of his companion. 
 
 Yet, as he walked, he could not forget the 
 letter. 
 
 "You noticed I addressed it to Judge 
 Stivers," he explained. "If there s a man on 
 earth who can solve the mystery of that rob 
 bery, he can. I ve called him Uncle John now 
 for years. Poor old Uncle John ! He s wor 
 ried as much about me, I think, as father has." 
 
 "Come, now you ought to quit worryin , 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 51 
 
 Pete, just forget it; it s sure to come out all 
 right in the clean up," Hawkins replied, a trifle 
 bored. 
 
 Pete sighed heavily, and made a desperate 
 effort to get his train of thoughts into a channel 
 that might prove more interesting to his com 
 panion. 
 
 "There doesn t seem to be anyone living 
 between here and the mountains at all," he 
 commented, as he noticed the barren waste of 
 snow that stretched in an almost unbroken ex 
 panse before him. 
 
 "No," Hawkins replied, "when the snow 
 melts in the spring, you will see the reason. 
 The old Salmon River, way up by the moun 
 tains now, must have been all over here once, 
 for there s nothing but waste sand under this 
 snow. A regular desert in the summer time." 
 
 "Someone seems to have gone just ahead 
 of us, though; see the tracks in the snow?" 
 
 "Yes," Hawkins replied, "probably some 
 of Jenkins crew at the pass. That s where I 
 always have trouble. You see the Salmon 
 River Gold Company grabbed that pass where 
 the Gulch Creek empties into the Salmon River, 
 and they could pretty near do as they pleased 
 about letting people through before they took 
 over the claims themselves. I m about the only 
 one that has an interest up the gulch, outside 
 of themselves now." 
 
52 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 For nearly half an hour the two walked on 
 in silence, Pete finding the tramp through the 
 snow exceedingly tiresome, and especially so 
 because of the weight of the pack he carried on 
 his back. As his own fatigue increased he 
 marveled at the strength and endurance of his 
 companion, who never once appeared to be in 
 terested in resting. 
 
 "Whew!" Pete finally protested, "let s 
 rest; I m soft, lots softer than I thought I was." 
 
 "Ha, ha," the old mountaineer laughed, 
 "I ve been waiting for you to say that, but if 
 you had held out much longer, I would have 
 hollered first. All right," he continued, as he 
 threw his pack on the snow, "let s sit on our 
 packs here, awhile, while I tell you how this 
 hole-in-the-ground of mine got its name." 
 
 With a sigh of relief, Pete followed the 
 miner s example and lowered his pack to the 
 snow. 
 
 "You mean the Dead Horse?" he queried 
 after the first few minutes rest. "I ve been 
 wondering about that." 
 
 "Well," Hawkins chuckled, "most of em 
 about here have forgotten it. You see, I came 
 into these hills twenty odd years ago, as I ve 
 told you. I was a Jim-dandy remittance man 
 then, and wanted to find a gold mine, so I could 
 get back to Australia on my own as we used 
 to say. I hired a couple of guides, good fellows 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 53 
 
 right enough, but they had no end of fun with 
 me. Whenever they wanted to rest and lay 
 around camp, they d send me out over a lot of 
 barren ground, picking up rock and digging 
 for gold. One day, we d just gone up the gulch 
 yonder, and we were all fagged out. It seems 
 they had been there before, and had lost a pack 
 animal, broke its leg or something, and they 
 had buried it right where it fell. Thinking they 
 had a good joke, they fixed it up between them 
 to set me digging into that dead horse s grave. 
 Well, I missed the grave, and dug into what I 
 thought was an indication of ore. Well, to 
 make a long story short, I named her the Dead 
 Horse Mine, right then and there. I quit be 
 ing a remittance man long ago, but off and on, 
 I ve earned enough money to keep after that 
 ore in the old mine for more than twenty years. 
 This winter I think I ll get ore. I ve been think 
 ing this way for the last few years, though 
 can t be certain, of course." 
 
 For nearly half an hour Hawkins told Pete 
 of the Dead Horse Mine, becoming so inter 
 ested in his subject that Pete was actually suf 
 fering from the cold. 
 
 As Hawkins brought his story to an end, 
 Pete made to start, when Hawkins restrained 
 him. 
 
 "We never can make camp out here," he 
 said, indicating the white waste about him. 
 
54 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "I m getting powerful hungry. Think we had 
 better take a chance, and go by way of the old 
 cabins. No one uses the trail any more, but 
 it s much quicker." 
 
 So saying they turned oft to the left, and 
 continued in silence. 
 
 "Hello," Hawkins suddenly ejaculated, 
 "seems that our friends ahead decided to cut 
 over and take this trail, too. See, there s their 
 tracks again." 
 
 Seeing nothing unusual in the matter, Pete 
 made no comment, but trudged silently on. 
 
 An hour later the cabins Hawkins referred 
 to loomed into sight. 
 
 "Old company houses," Hawkins ex 
 plained. "Crew that cut Salmon Tooth Pass 
 road lived in em. Empty now. We ll stop and 
 make camp there." 
 
 Pete was becoming painfully aware of the 
 absence of anything to eat since breakfast. En 
 couraged now by the promise of food and rest 
 he redoubled his efforts to keep pace with the 
 sturdy miner. 
 
 They had come within fifty yards of the 
 nearest hut when Hawkins hesitated and low 
 ered his pack. Pete, still under headway of his 
 new effort to keep up, bumped full into him 
 before he could stop. 
 
 "Don t look, somebody s coverin us with 
 a gun from that house!" Hawkins whispered 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 55 
 
 hoarsely as he feigned adjustment of straps. 
 "Saw the door open a little. Quick, get your 
 pack down in front of you!" Pete was quick, 
 but his purpose was too evident; as he flattened 
 out in the snow the door of the house burst 
 wide open, and three shots rang out to 
 gether. Hawkins slumped heavily, hot blood 
 spurting from his left breast into the soft snow. 
 Pete was stunned with the suddenness of the 
 thing, and fairly crushed with horror at what 
 he saw as he prostrated himself beside his fal 
 len comrade. 
 
 "I m I m hit boy guess they got me 
 no use you to. Better signal quits." 
 Hawkins gasped. 
 
 Once the full significance of the thing came 
 to him, Pete felt himself torn between a mad 
 impulse to charge the murder house and a more 
 sensible desire to save the life of his friend. A 
 glance at the wound and he knew life or death 
 hung in the balance, and that time was every 
 thing. Frantically he sprang to his feet and 
 raised both arms in the air as evidence of sur 
 render. 
 
 A loud voice sounded from the open door 
 way. "All right, we ll come and get ya; hoist 
 em high, no dirty work. We got ya covered." 
 
 "Keep standing!" the voice ordered. 
 "Where s Hawkins? Get up, Hawkins, or 
 we ll shoot yer burglar friend." 
 
56 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "He s done for, you dirty assassins. He s 
 nearly dead. Shoot me, if you like, but do 
 something for this man, quick!" Pete half 
 shouted and half pleaded the words. 
 
 Apparently satisfied, two men with rifles 
 in arms came forward, followed closely by two 
 others. 
 
 "Damn fools to put up a fight," the man 
 in front grunted as he indicated the packs, and 
 Hawkins gun, still clenched in the miner s 
 hand. Pete scrutinized the four sharply. He 
 knew the types, for he had seen gunmen, thugs 
 and gangsters aplenty in San Francisco. Only 
 the clothes, he observed, gave them a different 
 outward appearance from the men who now 
 confronted him. 
 
 "Quick, this man s dying. For God s sake, 
 get him into the house!" he pleaded, lowering 
 his arms and bending over the prostrate figure 
 in the snow. 
 
 The leader, with sly, rat-like expression, 
 kicked Pete s pack viciously. "Hell," he mut 
 tered, "bet he ain t got a drop to drink in 
 there." Then turning to Pete, he thrust his 
 gun menacingly at him and continued: "Don t 
 get in a hurry, you. We know what we re do 
 ing, all right. You re worth about five thou 
 sand bucks on the hoof and this bird s worth 
 about that much dead. And when it comes to 
 that part of it you killed him see?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 57 
 
 Seconds spent in talk seemed like hours to 
 Pete. Helplessly he witnessed Hawkins life 
 blood ooze ! A curse was surely on his head, 
 bitterness gripped his soul ! The gunmen be 
 side him seemed to lose their identity; like evil 
 genii they looked, and an insane impulse to 
 spring upon them swept over him! 
 
 But the very insanity of the impulse brought 
 cunning with it, as Pete turned to the gunmen 
 and spoke quickly. 
 
 "Rats," he began, "know what you ve 
 done? You ve nearly killed the man that 
 cached the fifty thousand dollars I stole! 
 Here s the only living man that knows where 
 it is!" Pete pointed at the prostrate form on 
 the snow and went on. "Let me dress his 
 wounds. I ll get the pot, and split it with you. 
 Quick, he s going fast." 
 
 Alguin, he of the rat face, "Al," the gang 
 sters called him, stepped close to Pete. "If 
 yer lying," he smirked, "we ll frame ya 
 sure for murdering this man, and fixin the hole 
 in him won t make him live either. If yer 
 talkin straight the deal sounds fair enough. 
 Bring the Gopher in, fellows, no hurry anyhow, 
 Bull can t get here for hours yet." 
 
 "Hurry then, for God s sake, hurry!" Pete 
 shouted, as he grabbed his pack and rushed 
 wildly for the cabin. 
 
 "Bed quick," he ordered on gaining an 
 
58 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 entrance. Frantically he tore open his pack 
 and snatched the small medicine kit that Smead 
 had included in his list of supplies. Then he 
 made for the bed upon which Hawkins was 
 laid by the four men who carried him in. 
 
 Only the sub-conscious mind of the one-time 
 medical student seemed functioning as Pete 
 hung over the prostrate body of his friend and 
 probed deep into the left lung for the assassin s 
 bullet. 
 
 Even the huddled group of gangsters, some 
 nervous and restless in the presence of their 
 crime, marveled at the phenomenal skill with 
 which he worked. 
 
 Alguin alone, as he played an electric flash 
 at Pete s command, seemed interested, for mer 
 cenary reasons only. 
 
 At the end of an hour Pete straightened 
 and breathed heavily. 
 
 "Can t see what you frisk safes for, when 
 you can do that." Alguin spoke for the first 
 time. 
 
 If Pete heard him, he made no sign, as 
 tenderly he looked again under the eyelids 
 of the helpless Hawkins. "I ve done all a 
 human can," he muttered. "God only can do 
 the rest, and God doesn t seem to be working." 
 Then he sank to his knees beside the bed. 
 
 How long he lay there he did not know, but 
 when he again opened his eyes, kerosene lights 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 59 
 
 were burning in another room, and a fire was 
 crackling somewhere in an open hearth. He 
 was not in a one-room shack, he noticed, but 
 rather in one room of a combination of three 
 or four. Pete, however, paid little attention 
 to the room, as he hung breathlessly over the 
 form of his patient, observing his breathing 
 and pulse beats. At length, convinced that he 
 had done all that lay within his power for the 
 wounded man, he slumped again to his knees 
 by the bed. 
 
 Presently he heard someone brush through 
 the door, and approach the bedside, but he did 
 not look up as his throbbing head had again 
 sought refuge between his folded arms. A 
 strange voice roused him. 
 
 "I ve brought you some supper, Mr. Alden, 
 and some clean bandages and water. You are 
 a splendid surgeon." 
 
 Pete rubbed his eyes in astonishment. A 
 woman or a girl, he could not be sure in the 
 dim light, stood beside him. 
 
 "Am I crazy, or am I sight-seeing again on 
 the Barbary Coast?" he rasped through his 
 teeth. What effect the bitter insinuation had, 
 he could not see, and would not if he could. 
 He was in a gangster s den, and only one kind 
 of a woman could be there. He waited a mo 
 ment for his answer, but the woman had left, 
 leaving a small tray of food, a pitcher of hot 
 
60 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 water and a small roll of clean white strips on 
 an empty soap box by the bedside. 
 
 The sight of the bandages caused the opera 
 tion of a few hours before to flash back 
 through Pete s mind. There had been a nurse 
 there, it seemed, someone who knew just what 
 he wanted. He remembered her faintly. He 
 could not be sure; his brain could not be 
 trusted. First stupefied with whiskey, eating 
 only once in twenty-four hours, witnessing him 
 self placarded as a thief; invited to freedom 
 by a man of his own heart, only, so it seemed, 
 to be the cause of that same friend s now lying 
 at the point of death, was far too much for 
 one human being to endure. It was little 
 wonder he could not trust his brain. Aside 
 from his mental collapse, he was completely 
 exhausted by his hard tramp through the snow, 
 and the strenuous super-human effort necessary 
 to steel his nerves for the operation. He gave 
 up entirely now and slumped heavily forward, 
 letting his delirious head nestle softly against 
 the prostrate body of Hawkins. 
 
 But torture followed him, even to this piti 
 fully fitful sleep. He was caught fast in the 
 bogs of a swamp it seemed to his fevered 
 brain. Vainly he sought to rise, but human 
 monsters, dancing devils with long red knives, 
 thrust him back. He called for help but no 
 one came, until at length his father drifted in 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 61 
 
 on the scene. Pleadingly Peter held up his 
 hands, and his father bent over to grasp them. 
 Yet even before their hands met, a dwarf stole 
 up and whispered in his father s ear: u He 
 isn t your son, he s a thief, a common thief, 
 don t touch him!" 
 
 Then many little dwarfs tugged and pulled 
 until his father went away. Peter, heart bro 
 ken, begged the devils to kill him, and he waited 
 for the blow. But no, even as he begged to 
 die, a strong man came up and brushed his 
 tormentors aside and with one pull had him 
 half out of the mire. Then the biggest dwarf 
 of all let fly a huge spear straight at him. His 
 rescuer stood in the way and was struck. Pete 
 felt the hands that held his grow cold and weak. 
 In agony he tried to help, to do something, but 
 his feet were still in the bog, and he could do 
 nothing, until finally an angel floated down and 
 poured something into the dying man s mouth, 
 and as she did so, the man grew instantly 
 stronger, his fingers closing once more on Pete s 
 trembling hands. Pete looked up in gratitude, 
 and the angel smiled at him! Pete, with new 
 hope in his heart, moved his knees and found 
 he could help himself a little when the angel 
 smiled. She seemed to bathe his burning head 
 with cold water and even kissed his parched 
 lips as she smiled. Even as she did so, the 
 dying man looked on, smiled faintly and said 
 
62 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 he could live. With a sigh, Pete rested his 
 head on soft green grass that somehow took the 
 place of the swamp. He stretched his aching 
 limbs luxuriously and slept, the sweet sleep of 
 a man kissed in his dreams by a beautiful 
 woman. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Sunshine, flooding full in his face, greeted 
 Pete as he reluctantly opened his eyes for a 
 moment to stare vacantly about. Almost at 
 once his eyes rested on the drawn form of 
 Hawkins, and the scene of the night before 
 with all of its horror, came back to him. He 
 had slept long and forsaken his wounded 
 friend 1 With a startled cry he sprang up from 
 a mattress on the floor and made for the 
 wounded man s bedside ! As he did so a form 
 bending over the sick bed turned and faced 
 him. Steel-blue eyes that wanted to be merry, 
 but obviously under stern restraint, met his, 
 and he stopped as though facing an apparition. 
 Was he still dreaming? Cold words shattered 
 his doubts. "I see you are up, Mr. Alden. Your 
 patient passed the crisis at midnight. I will 
 leave now." The girl, so vividly young, yet 
 drawn with care, turned to go. 
 
 Peter wheeled confusedly from a mad rush 
 to the sick bed, to detain the fair apparition a 
 moment longer. "Wait, Angel. I mean, am I 
 dreaming? Who are you; why are you here?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 63 
 
 The girl raised her hand for silence. 
 "There may be burglars on the Barbary Coast," 
 her words were eloquent with fine sarcasm, 
 "but certainly there are no angels there!" So 
 saying, she closed the door softly behind her. 
 
 Stunned by the rebuke, Pete recalled his 
 words of the night before. Nothing mattered 
 now, however, but the life of Hawkins, and he 
 turned and softly tiptoed to the bedside. 
 
 Hawkins breathed evenly and well. His 
 eyes opened for a moment and rested on Peter. 
 
 "Well, boy, I ve been there and back," 
 he gasped slowly and with great effort, then 
 relapsed into life-giving slumber. 
 
 Pete, greatly refreshed by his sleep and still 
 dwelling on the soul-satisfying dreams he had 
 had, pulled a chair to the window, and looked 
 out into the sunshine. A heavily armed man 
 sat beside a fire directly in front of the window. 
 Clicking of poker chips and occasional loud 
 voices assailed his ears from the adjoining 
 rooms. The scene of the near murder, trampled 
 snow, and the trail of blood still bore mute 
 witness to the agonies of the day before, and 
 he shifted his gaze to the sick bed. Realiz 
 ing that his friend was being nursed back 
 to life, only in all probability to be foully mur 
 dered later on, for some unknown reason, sat 
 badly with the mountain sunshine and snow 
 without. He remembered the fifty thousand 
 
64 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 dollars, hiding, so his captors thought, in the 
 mountains. Realization of his own hopeless 
 position, soon to be arrested as he was, and in 
 all probability for the murder of his friend 
 also if the plan of the gangsters was carried 
 out, flashed through his mind. Nevertheless, 
 even these thoughts failed somehow to 
 strike terror to his heart. Instead, green 
 fields and laughing blue eyes danced before 
 him. Who was she? One of the gangster s 
 wives, perhaps. Yes, undoubtedly, yet what 
 would have happened to Hawkins without her? 
 He looked fondly into the face of the sleeping 
 man. Did she only nurse him because she too 
 had heard of the fifty thousand dollars? But 
 certainly, why else? Was she not one of the 
 gangsters, living in the same house with them? 
 His lips curled bitterly. What wouldn t a 
 woman stoop to? If she only didn t look so 
 much like the angel of his dream ! Peter sighed 
 and looked once more through the window. 
 
 A sudden start brought him to his feet and 
 he pressed close to the glass. The figure of 
 a man coming up the trail seemed to blot out 
 the sunshine and drag the swamp of Pete s 
 dreams along with him toward the house. Pete 
 thought back, then like a flash he remembered 
 him. It was Duller Garret! The man he 
 drank with at the Gold Nugget Saloon. A feel 
 ing of relief came over him, only instantly to 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 65 
 
 leave him as he thought of the letter to his 
 father. It was Buller who talked to the boy 
 who carried the letter for San Francisco ! 
 
 As the man approached the door, a fem 
 inine voice greeted him. 
 
 "Good morning, Buller," it rang out 
 "Buller," she called him Buller! Pete winced, 
 as the voice went on : "We ve been expecting 
 you all night long. Got your Mr. Burglar 
 all right." 
 
 The two were inside the house now and 
 Pete found it necessary to step lightly to the 
 door to follow the conversation. She was still 
 talking. u But why did they shoot this poor 
 mountaineer? Is that part of the plan, too?" 
 Pete heard her ask. 
 
 "Then, he s dead?" Buller seemed suddenly 
 elated. 
 
 "No," she answered, "he s still alive." 
 
 "Hell. Get me Al, hurry up." 
 
 As Buller thus spoke to the girl Pete stirred 
 uneasily. How dare the brute order her about 
 so ! As he asked himself this question, he heard 
 the approach of a man followed by angry 
 words from Bull. 
 
 "What s this, Al, Hawkins ain t bumped?" 
 
 "We re bumpin fer money, ain t we?" 
 Alguin retorted. 
 
 "There ya go agin, always belly-achin fer 
 cash. Ain t ya allus got yer dough?" 
 
66 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Sure, but we re collectin this time fer 
 keepin em alive. Listen/ (Alguin got confiden 
 tial) "the dip in there slips this Hawkins bloke 
 the wad, fifty thousand bucks; he caches it in 
 the hills, jigs up and they go after it, see? 
 Hawkins, when his pipes er workin* again, tips 
 us where the sugar lays; blooey, we cash in all 
 around, get me?" 
 
 "Gotja," Duller grunted. "Where they 
 at?" 
 
 Pete heard footsteps coming toward the 
 door as he quickly regained his chair by the 
 window. The door opened. 
 
 "So, we meets again, Mr. Peter Alden, 
 J-A-R." Bull s words had a sickening purr to 
 them, as he greeted his glowering prisoner. 
 
 Pete snapped quickly up from his chair, his 
 full six feet towering even larger in his corduroy 
 breeches and thick flannel shirt. With stubborn 
 hair breaking clean from a massive forehead, 
 high cheek bones, jaws squared, his mouth 
 narrowed to a slit, Pete looked anything but 
 the crestfallen, despondent drunkard Buller re 
 membered. For a moment the gangster hesi 
 tated, then continued his purring. "Feelin 
 cocky for a burglar guy, ain t ya?" His 
 shifty eyes took in the entire room at a glance. 
 A soft fluffy handkerchief caught his eye, and 
 his face flushed instantly as he continued talk 
 ing. "Maybe my little Missus been feedin 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 67 
 
 ya too good. No hard feelin s though, 
 seein s how yer not stayin long. Sit down." 
 
 Pete huddled himself on the window-sill 
 and looked out, while Bull calmly rolled a yel 
 low cigarette. Observing the cigarette, Pete 
 looked from Bull to the sick bed. If Bull got 
 the significance of the look, he ignored it, and 
 before he could apply a match, Pete s long 
 right arm shot out like a flash, grasping rat-tail 
 mustache, hand-made cigarette and all in a vice- 
 like grip. With a grinding jerk he threw the 
 cigarette to the floor and ground it under his 
 heel. 
 
 u Rat! There s a man over there, sick. 
 You make the air rotten enough without light 
 ing up!" 
 
 Bull, white with rage, sprang back, reach 
 ing for the gun on his hip, but Pete, with legs 
 wide apart, and hands on hips, sneered sar 
 castically: "Dog, you can t shoot, got to be 
 dark for you to work!" 
 
 Bull s fingers twitched nervously at the 
 holster, yet he hesitated. As he stood thus, 
 a cunning gleam came into his eyes. "Kinda 
 nasty this mornin ain t ya? guess I ll write 
 yer old man an tell im as how yer all 
 grown up now in man s clothes." Bull followed 
 his words by pulling a letter from his pocket, 
 which Pete recognized at once as the one he 
 himself had written. Bull continued: "This 
 
68 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 thing don t read much like a man wrote it 
 though, think I kin add some news to it. I m 
 comin in agin," he continued, his voice lowered 
 almost to a snarl, "an when I do, ya d better 
 be a little polite, if ya expect to see papa 
 agin ." Then the door closed behind him, fol 
 lowed instantly by the rattle of dishes on a tray, 
 and a woman s voice saying: "Oh, I beg your 
 pardon, Buller. I was just taking in something 
 to eat." 
 
 "Well, don t, and yer not goin in there 
 any more. That goes ! Here, Al, throw this 
 chuck at em." 
 
 If Buller could have witnessed the flash 
 of color in Pete s white face, as he listened to 
 the words, he might not have waited long for 
 his next visit to the sick room. Alguin obedi 
 ently shoved the door open, and placed a crude 
 tin tray of food on the floor. "Bring that 
 junk," he ordered, indicating the two basins of 
 crimson water beneath the sick bed. 
 
 Pete did as ordered and followed Alguin 
 out, passing down a short hallway into what 
 proved to be a sort of washroom, once used by 
 laborers. He lingered in this room, and on the 
 way back, as long as possible, but for some rea 
 son or other the house seemed deserted and 
 only Alguin, the sick man and himself re 
 mained of the considerable group who had been 
 there during the night. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 69 
 
 After feeding hot broth to Hawkins and 
 smoothing as best he could the coarse pillows 
 of the bed, he plunged hungrily into his own 
 plate of fat sandwiches, washing great mouth- 
 fuls down with hot coffee. In spite of the hec 
 tic shape his affairs had taken, he was surprised 
 to find that he still had a semblance of 
 the buoyancy of spirit that had come to him as 
 he told his story to Hawkins. Even the steal 
 ing of his letter home failed to kill it. Per 
 haps it came with the knowledge that Hawkins 
 had passed the crisis. He would not face an 
 other one ! Pete swore as he started a savage 
 bite. The bite ended abruptly, however, as 
 his teeth brought up sharply against something 
 in the sandwich decidedly unbitable. Curiously 
 Pete pried the slices of bread apart and peered 
 between. Then he started eating as calmly as 
 possible at another corner! With pounding 
 heart he looked stealthily about, to see if he 
 was observed. At length, feeling certain he was 
 secure, he slipped from between the slices of 
 bread, a snugly folded bit of brown paper and 
 read: 
 
 "Hawkins cached the fifty thousand dollars you stole 
 back of Jumbo Point, ten paces due East discovery stake 
 old Cherry Blossom Claims. Destroy this. Tarn." 
 
 For a moment Pete gazed, as though fasci 
 nated, at the paper. Footsteps approached his 
 door, and someone seemed about to enter. With 
 
70 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 a quick movement he shoved the note, remain 
 der of the sandwich and all into his mouth, 
 washing them down with coffee, before he 
 turned and faced the door. 
 
 Four men, three of whom Pete recognized, 
 entered. Duller came first, with Alguin and his 
 mate of the day before following, but the 
 fourth man was a stranger to Pete. As they 
 closed the door behind them Pete observed that 
 Bull s bravery seemed to increase with the size 
 of his gang. 
 
 "Now, we re talkin business," he smirked, 
 "and we won t git rough unless papa s boy 
 needs a spankin ." All but the fourth man of 
 the gangsters joined in loud guffaws. At the 
 noise Pete observed Hawkins eyes open and 
 then close quickly. "Kin yer mountain gopher 
 talk yet?" pursued Bull, indicating the bed. 
 
 "No." Pete spoke as much to Hawkins as 
 to the gangsters. "A dozen words and his 
 lungs will flood with blood and that ll make 
 you murderers." 
 
 "Yer not talking bout us" snapped Alguin. 
 "Yer the murderer; four men an a lady saw 
 ya do it, an ud swear to it!" 
 
 "Well," Bull interrupted, "he d better be 
 talkin by tonight, blood or no blood. We re 
 runnin just criss-cross to orders. You d oughta 
 be takin a nice long ride now, and yer gopher 
 friend ought to be pushin up lilies. Yer too 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 71 
 
 valuable stock to have sittin purty out here in 
 the open. I holds that a deal s a deal. I m fer 
 going straight ahead with the program. But 
 little Phil, here," Bull nodded his head toward 
 Alguin, "says yer offerin a new deal. How 
 about it?" Before Pete could answer, Buller s 
 eyes swept the room, stopped in front of the 
 bed and flashed back to Pete. "Jest a minute, 
 you. Stick up yer dukes, I m lookin fer a little 
 dry-goods." 
 
 Buller ripped open the flap of Pete s left 
 pocket and with a smile, more like a snarl, 
 extracted a lady s handkerchief. As though 
 what he had found confirmed a growing sus 
 picion, he turned on Alguin and said deter 
 minedly: "I m tellin ya again, Phil, this is 
 bad business. Orders is orders. If old J. D. 
 finds out we re crossin him it s Deer Lodge 
 fer us." Pete, looking anxiously toward the 
 bed, thought he saw Hawkins face twitch a 
 little at this speech. 
 
 Little Phil replied: "Well, ya asked him 
 for his deal, didn t you? Let s have it." 
 
 Buller registered half-defiance and half- 
 agreement, but said nothing, as he indicated 
 that Pete should explain his offer. 
 
 "Well," Pete began, "there s a little matter 
 of fifty thousand dollars, that I m not caring a 
 hell of a lot about, seeing how things are. You 
 can have it if you play the game." 
 
72 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Where is it?" asked Buller, plainly sus 
 picious. 
 
 "Used to be in a safe," Pete bantered. 
 
 "Don t get funny," Buller threatened, 
 "where s it now?" 
 
 "That s my game." Pete s new manner 
 was baffling. 
 
 "Just supposing for a minute there is fifty 
 thousand dollars in one place in the world, 
 what s yer game?" Buller demanded, as 
 though determined to go through with the talk 
 for Alguin s sake, though Pete was certain his 
 fate was already fixed in the leader s mind. 
 
 "Just what I named to your nice little mur 
 derer over there," Pete replied, motioning to 
 ward Alguin. "Wait till Hawkins here can 
 talk, then let me lead you to the cache ; you for 
 get me and the stuff s yours. Fair enough, isn t 
 it?" 
 
 "Now, then, yer talkin purty," Buller re 
 torted. "But, it don t go. We got to know 
 where it is, and what if there ain t fifty thou 
 sand dollars, or any dollars?" 
 
 "Well, you ve still got us, if it isn t, haven t 
 you?" Pete asked. 
 
 "That s one thing ya said right," Buller 
 replied, and his expression left no doubt of its 
 sinister meaning in Pete s mind. Turning to 
 his companions, Buller advised holding a meet- 
 in on the subject, and finally led the men out 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 73 
 
 of the room, but not until he had warned Pete 
 to have his sick friend talking by night. 
 
 The strain of the thing was beginning to 
 tell on Pete. Even his new fighting spirit failed 
 to come to his rescue as he took stock of the 
 situation, pacing, as he did so, back and forth 
 in the room. 
 
 Outside, the sun continued shining as 
 brightly as ever. A bird even had the temerity 
 to hop up on his very window-sill, and peer 
 saucily in, and as Pete watched it peck about 
 for a moment or so and then flit merrily away, 
 the strangeness of his situation came to him in 
 a new light. Here was a handful of men, and 
 a woman, thrown together entirely by circum 
 stances. Yet one of the men, a simple, clean 
 man of the hills, was lying at the point of death, 
 and a woman, lovely to behold, a veritable 
 angel among devils it seemed, yet withal was 
 among them! "Four men and a lady saw you 
 kill him." Alguin s words mocked and jeered 
 as Pete thought of the woman. It was easy 
 for him to visualize crime in crowded slums of 
 great cities, but here it seemed wholly unnat 
 ural and awful. If there was a God anywhere, 
 surely the glistening white mountains, dark 
 mysterious canyons, snow-covered forests and 
 frozen streams should know him ! Yet in all his 
 checkered career Peter could not recall a scene 
 so foul as the shooting of Hawkins, or a plot 
 
74 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 so dastardly as the one in which he was the 
 principal actor. What was the answer to it 
 all? A dozen times he asked himself the ques 
 tion. What were Buller Garret s mysterious 
 orders? And the girl, Tarn; why had she writ 
 ten him the note? 
 
 The scene shifted to Frisco, to the home 
 of his father. How he must feel, seeing his 
 only son, apple of his eye, placarded as a com 
 mon burglar ! And no denial of the accusation 
 to soothe his tortured heart! But all this was 
 past and gone, still raw and sore to be sure, 
 but an old wound, nevertheless, compared 
 with the ominous hours ahead. He walked 
 over to Hawkins and tenderly held his still 
 hands. He felt the pulses, and noted that they 
 were weak, but persistent. Given half a chance, 
 the sturdy mountaineer could soon demand an 
 accounting of his enemies, Pete assured him 
 self. 
 
 While Pete stood thus, Hawkins opened his 
 eyes and smiled. Not the weak smile of a sick 
 man, but the confident smile of a man who never 
 loses, be the odds against him what they may. 
 He motioned a desire to talk, and Pete leaned 
 closely to listen. 
 
 "Heard em," he whispered. "Company 
 trick-want Dead Horse Mine not you. 
 They ll try to bump me again." 
 
 "Did you hear about the fifty thousand 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 75 
 
 you re supposed to have cached for me?" Pete 
 asked anxiously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You re supposed to say it s back of Jumbo 
 Point, ten paces due east discovery stake, 
 Cherry Blossom Claim," Pete spoke softly, 
 watching both the door and window for pos 
 sible eavesdroppers. 
 
 "Hell of a place!" As Hawkins spoke he 
 would have chuckled over the words, but his 
 face contracted in pain, and he patted Pete s 
 hand instead. A moment later he resumed. 
 "Take a week to get there; I ll be fighting 
 then." 
 
 "No, you won t, not for a month. I m 
 doing the fighting for both of us; you re going 
 to get better first, and that will take a long 
 
 time." 
 
 "Coin to fight, just the same," Hawkins 
 continued, undaunted. "With my brains, not 
 my guns. Got a trick or two myself, just you 
 get me out of here and play easy till I lead." 
 Pete hung over the words, not certain if his 
 patient knew the full plot against them, and 
 wondering if he should tell him all he knew. 
 Hawkins lips moved again. "Company gun 
 crew all here," he muttered, waving feeble 
 arms about, "who else?" 
 
 "A woman lady girl." 
 
 "Three of em?" Hawkins raised his brow. 
 
76 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "No, only one." 
 
 "Name?" 
 
 "Tarn, that s all I know," Pete replied. 
 
 "Tamarack Susie, gun crew s brains." 
 Hawkins shook his finger warningly in Pete s 
 puzzled face. "She s . . . ." Hawkins wanted 
 to say more but his throat rattled, and a fleck 
 of blood colored his white lips. 
 
 Pete, thoroughly alarmed, spoke sharply, 
 "Stop, not another word, keep still!" he or 
 dered, and hurriedly bathed the man s lips, 
 propped him higher on the pillow and listened 
 anxiously at the rattling chest for the dreaded 
 hemorrhage. At the end of a minute he sighed 
 in relief and again took his seat by the bedside. 
 
 Hour after hour he sat there, now intently 
 watching the calm face of the heroic Hawkins, 
 battling silently against heavy odds as he was, 
 and now gazing far out into the mountains, 
 watching the setting sun polish to a glistening 
 finish hard white ridges of the mountains. 
 
 "Somewhere out there," he told himself, 
 "Peter Alden, Jr., is going to learn something." 
 
 With darkness came blustering wind, howl 
 ing mournfully about the cabin, shaking win 
 dows and blowing puffs of drifted snow in fine 
 frozen grains through the tiny cracks. The 
 air was freezing cold, and Peter feared for 
 Hawkins. Already he had added his own fur 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 77 
 
 coat to the meager covering, and now stood 
 beating his arms about to keep his blood run 
 ning hot. It was a losing fight, and Pete cursed 
 bitterly. Time and again he tried the door, but 
 it was always locked. Outside the guard hud 
 dled close under a hastily-thrown-up shelter 
 where a fire glowed red in the blackness made 
 weird by blowing snow. The house was certainly 
 deserted, Pete thought, but even fiends might 
 send to their victims heat, a light and food. 
 Duller must have won his point and already the 
 gangsters were probably on the way to Moapa 
 for the sheriff. At the thought Pete s jaws 
 bulged and his eyes narrowed to slits. Haw 
 kins, a tie that held him there more securely 
 than forty iron chains, could give life-saving 
 advice, if he dared let him talk, but it was no 
 use, and he turned again and looked at the fire 
 in the yard. As he did so, four men, crouching 
 low against the wind, crossed the path of lurid 
 light and made for the cabin. A heavy key 
 rasped in the door, and men stamping snow 
 from coarse boots came in. A moment more, 
 and Pete heard the crackling of kindling wood 
 in the hearth. Then his own door was thrown 
 open and Buller Garret, kerosene lamp in hand, 
 entered, his gloating smile appearing grotesque 
 in the sudden light of the room. 
 
 "Feelin* nice and polite, tonight, Peter 
 J-A-R?" he asked, as he placed the light on the 
 
78 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 soap box in the corner. Without waiting for 
 an answer he retraced his steps, leaving the 
 door wide open. Pete was genuinely grateful 
 for the warm air that swept in, but above all 
 for the opportunity to see Bull s company. He 
 was relieved to observe the same faces he had 
 seen with Buller before. 
 
 Some one was preparing a meal and the 
 aroma of coffee coupled with the sound of 
 crackling fire revived his spirits. 
 
 A half hour later he was again feeding 
 broth to Hawkins, eyeing the while a huge por 
 tion of beef, broiled to a char, which had been 
 sent in for himself. Nothing feminine about 
 the meal, Pete mused between huge bites, as 
 he thought of the sandwiches. Even the coffee 
 now was unusually strong and black and with 
 out sugar. 
 
 The meal finished, Pete was ordered to join 
 the circle about the fire. Tenderly he tucked 
 covering about the sick man, and stepped out 
 to join the circle of gangsters, expecting to 
 be told the course of action that had undoubt 
 edly been agreed upon. As Pete came into the 
 room, he heard words pass. Little Phil Alguin 
 was talking earnestly to Bull. 
 
 " and better lay it to im jes as she 
 
 figgered it, eh, Buller?" 
 
 Pete s presence stopped an answer. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 79 
 
 "Any objection to lightin up?" Duller 
 smirked as Pete took a seat. 
 
 "Not out here," Pete replied, now as 
 before finding it impossible even to feign socia 
 bility with Buller Garret. With an effort he 
 relaxed into a less hostile mood, and tried to 
 smile. Buller took his changed manner as evi 
 dence of a partial victory and continued: 
 
 "Old Gopher in there talkin yet?" 
 
 "He did, and it nearly killed him," Pete 
 answered simply. 
 
 "Talk location stuff?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where is it?" It was plain Buller thought 
 Pete was lying. 
 
 "It used to be in a safe." 
 
 "Still cocky, huh?" Buller s face darkened. 
 
 "Give em the dope, don t get to fightin 
 again," interrupted Alguin, impatiently. 
 
 "Well, yer damn lucky to be sittin there," 
 Buller continued. "Don t mind tellin ya what s 
 what. Order is, old Gopher in there s got to 
 be croaked. That s worth more than cash to 
 me. I ain t allus been free an loose-like 
 myself, an* he knows it. Then there s you. 
 Yer worth five thousand berries, in jail. 
 More n that, we could fasten old Gopher s 
 bumpin onto you easier n hell, and that s that. 
 Now afore I gets here, you up and talks fifty 
 thousand cash to my pals, and they falls for it 
 
80 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 hard. Personally, don t mind sayin I think yer 
 a liar. But I can t play my hunch against all 
 the boys here, so we had a meetin . I m tellin 
 ya all this, so you won t go figgerin crossways 
 later, see? Well, we had a meetin and here s 
 the dope : First off, Hawkins gotta go. We 
 ain t sayin what s happened to him, he s jest 
 takin a little trip. You re stayin right here. 
 Slim over there goes after your cash. If he gets 
 it, you can burn up snow from here to hell, if 
 you want to, I don t care. If he don t find it, 
 well, there ll be a nice little necktie party for 
 bumpin Hawkins. Somebody s got to be the 
 goat, you know, an anyhow," Bull saw his 
 error and hurried on, u the boys here all say 
 you got the dope on the cash from Hawkins 
 and bumped him. That bein the case, you d 
 oughta be damn grateful that we re not turn 
 ing ya over." Buller finished his long speech 
 with an air of finality. 
 
 "How do I know you won t finish Hawkins 
 just as soon as I tell you where the cache is?" 
 Pete asked carelessly. 
 
 "How do we know you ain t double-crossin 
 us on where the long green s reposin ?" coun 
 tered Buller. 
 
 "You have my word." 
 
 "Yeh, an that s a hell of a lot, ain t it?" 
 scoffed Bull. "An you ve got my word the old 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 81 
 
 Gopher won t be bumped if yer telling the 
 truth." 
 
 "Then, what will you do with him? Why 
 not leave him here?" 
 
 "Now, yer askin questions that ya don t 
 have no concern in at all. An now that weVe 
 talked to ya like genelmen, what s the an 
 swer?" 
 
 Under such circumstances one with half the 
 astuteness of an Alden could have answered 
 the question at once. Pete knew the game was 
 up; he would be glad to have the few days res 
 pite afforded by the hunt for the mythical fifty 
 thousand, of course. But Hawkins words 
 flashed through his mind. "Tamarack Susie, 
 brains of the gun crew," he had said. And she, 
 the brains of the gun crew, had given him the 
 location of the cache! Was it a trick? When 
 sober, Pete seldom lost at playing poker. Now 
 he studied the stern, crafty faces about him. 
 If they knew she had sent him the Jumbo Point 
 location and heard him name it now, they would 
 know he lied, and he could expect no mercy at 
 their hands. The Company s game, whatever 
 it was, called for Hawkins life. Pete knew 
 the men before him cared nothing for murder. 
 He knew the system they represented, for he 
 had often heard his father tell how escaped 
 criminals, men with death penalties over their 
 
82 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 heads, often entered criminal service for de 
 signing men of affairs, and he knew that these 
 criminals had little chance of escaping the 
 clutches once they entered such service. But 
 why had Tarn written the note? Hawkins 
 warning finger, and the gurgle of blood in the 
 miner s throat, flashed back to Peter. Eight 
 eyes, all searching for the slightest hint 
 of deception, were focused upon him. Still 
 he hesitated. His lips were dry, but he dared 
 not moisten them. Then Hawkins voice van 
 ished and his warning finger faded from Pete s 
 mind. In its place came flooding in the dream 
 of the night before, and he saw again the angel- 
 girl pouring water between the parched lips of 
 Hawkins ! There could be no mistake, the 
 angel was surely Tamarack Sue ! 
 
 Pete s face broke into a smile. Almost en 
 thusiastically he slapped his knee and ex 
 claimed: "You mean, then, that for this stink 
 ing fifty thousand, you ll let me go free and you 
 won t bump Hawkins?" 
 
 Buller was plainly surprised and taken 
 aback by Pete s evident certainty of the money. 
 Nevertheless he answered steadily: 
 
 "That s our game, where s the money?" 
 
 "Jumbo Point, ten paces due East of the 
 discovery stake of Cherry Blossom Claim." 
 Like a poker player with his all on the board 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 83 
 
 before him, Peter dealt the words and waited 
 tensely for the answer. 
 
 With a triumphant smile Alguin slapped 
 Buller on the shoulder. "Then, she s right 
 again, what d I tell you?" 
 
 Even Slim Eliot, dark-skinned and quiet, 
 the runner who Pete knew could bring back only 
 a sentence of death, seemed to be unusually 
 pleased. 
 
 "Let s figure the cut," someone suggested. 
 All but Buller seemed to consider the money 
 as good as in their hands. 
 
 Pete s momentary triumph was short-lived. 
 Buller faced him and slowly drew from his 
 pocket a small crumpled handkerchief. Pull 
 ing it meditatively through his fingers, he 
 caught Pete s eye and muttered : 
 
 "Sumthin queer about all this, sumthin 
 damn funny. Eliot starts in the morning. 
 Hawkins ll be leavin tonight." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 OETE had no opportunity to be alone with 
 * Hawkins again that night. He had hardly 
 finished naming the location of the money, in 
 fact, before preparations were made for the 
 removal of the wounded man. A deep wagon 
 box, once used for hauling gravel, but now rest 
 ing on crude runners, was backed up to the 
 door. Although fully a foot of straw covered 
 the bottom, he insisted on placing his own mat 
 tress on top of it, declaring to the gangsters 
 that even the slightest bump might mean death 
 for his friend. 
 
 Tears of grief flooded his eyes as he ten 
 derly dressed once more the jagged hole made 
 by Alguin s bullet. The rough sled loomed hor 
 ribly like a coffin in the semi-darkness of the 
 doorway, as with choking voice he uttered 
 words of hope and encouragement, tucked his 
 heavy fur coat over the form and placed a hard 
 pillow beneath the grizzled head. Hawkins 
 was wide awake and apparently aware of the 
 meaning of his trip, yet he said no word. For 
 a moment their eyes met, eyes of two strong 
 men sorely pressed, saying to each other: " Till 
 we meet again. 1 
 
 Slim Eliot cracked a whip; the sled moved 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 85 
 
 out into the night, and the door, as though be 
 grudging even the pitifully weak light that 
 streamed out, slammed shut. 
 
 With black despair in his heart, Pete ig 
 nored an invitation to sit by the fire and went to 
 his room. He tried to think clearly, to form 
 a plan, but nothing came to him. The air 
 seemed oppressive, and the room changed its 
 aspect from a dungeon vault to a huge square 
 sepulchre, made sacred by the blood of Brud 
 Hawkins. He seemed still to look into the 
 eyes that said: "You are my pardner, and it s 
 your lead." As Pete dwelt on the thought he 
 fervently raised his eyes toward heaven, 
 clenched his fists and made a vow: "Pardner, 
 I m not holding many cards right now, but such 
 as I have, by God, I m going to play!" 
 
 With his solemn oath came a new zeal that 
 sent blood tingling through his veins, as he 
 nervously paced the room, pausing each time 
 like a caged panther to gaze menacingly out at 
 the gangsters before the fire. Whiskey and 
 cards absorbed the attention of all save Buller, 
 who alone sat facing his door and did not drink. 
 
 Questions criss-crossed constructive 
 thoughts, as he tried to make a plan. Why had 
 Tarn written the note? Why had Hawkins 
 warned him against her? He had Hawkins 
 own words as a partial answer to this, anyway 
 
86 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Company trick, want Dead Horse Mine," 
 he had whispered. Why they wanted it, he 
 did not know. He remembered Hawkins say 
 ing he hadn t struck anything there. Even if 
 he had, why did they resort to murder? As he 
 pondered this in his mind, his answer, in the 
 shape of Buller Garret, looked straight at him 
 from behind the gambling table. Putting to 
 gether little scraps of what he had heard, Pete 
 came to the conclusion that Hawkins must in 
 some way have been crossing these very gang 
 sters. Buller, at any rate. Probably the Com 
 pany knew of it, and used their knowledge to 
 get rid of the miner. Carefully Pete checked 
 up the details of the past five days. He remem 
 bered that a crew was due to join Hawkins 
 and himself at the mine. Just when or where 
 he knew not. If only he could have talked with 
 Hawkins more ! 
 
 Pete recalled the words spoken before the 
 fireplace by Alguin. After all, Tarn, the girl 
 of mystery, must have laid out the program 
 that took Hawkins away! Even so he could 
 not believe that Tamarack Sue, "Tarn," she had 
 signed her name, belonged to the gangsters. 
 No, never! He felt morally certain he could 
 count upon her help, in spite of the mass of 
 conflicting evidence. 
 
 But what to do? Whenever he reached 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 87 
 
 that point, he seemed face to face with a sheer 
 cliff of granite. He must get word to the outer 
 world, but how? How? How? He thought 
 of officers at Moapa. "Lots of strangers in 
 town, company men, mostly in public offices." 
 The words of Hawkins flew back to him. How 
 much, after all, this man of the hills had said 
 in so few hours ! No wonder he was a thorn 
 in the side of some. 
 
 Pete threw himself heavily across the 
 empty bed, and ran nervous fingers through 
 badly tangled hair. A second there and he ner 
 vously plunged his fist deep into the mattress 
 beneath him and whirled again to his feet. 
 
 Outside the wind had died down, he no 
 ticed, its howling reduced to only occasional 
 moans. He went to the window. The guard s 
 fire was now a bed of coals and two men sat 
 beside it. They seemed unusually alert, Pete 
 thought, and their bearing reminded him of 
 what he had heard of prison camps in frozen 
 Siberia. 
 
 A light far up on the mountainside at 
 tracted his attention. Someone was signalling, 
 it seemed, as three times the lantern, or what 
 ever it was, swayed in a wide arc and disap 
 peared. A minute later and the signal was re 
 peated. A vague feeling, perhaps only a for 
 lorn hope inspired by dire want caused Pete to 
 
88 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 block as much of the window as he could. Not 
 satisfied with the experiment, he unbuttoned his 
 flannel shirt and held it like a bat s wings over 
 the square pane of glass. Three times he moved 
 quickly aside, then stood still and waited, 
 hardly daring to hope for an answer. Sud 
 denly the light reappeared, repeated three 
 swings, and disappeared. Fearing to raise false 
 hopes within him, Pete was still unwilling to 
 be convinced. He waited a full two minutes, 
 then allowed one flash only to pass through 
 the window. The answer came back, one flash. 
 Still not satisfied, he allowed a longer interval 
 of darkness, then flapped his shirt wings for five 
 distinct signals. Eagerly he pressed against 
 the pane of glass, for this must be his last sig 
 nal! The guards had changed their positions 
 and were facing him now. Seconds flew past, 
 and then minutes, it seemed. In the outer 
 room he heard signs of the game breaking up. 
 Would the answer come? He had been at 
 the window too long already, his silence must 
 have made Buller suspicious ! He began but 
 toning his shirt, and gave a last intent look into 
 the darkness. There it was! With pounding 
 heart he counted the swings, one-two-three-four 
 five ! Then darkness. They were meant for 
 him, there could be no doubt of it now! But 
 who had sent them? What did they mean? 
 At any rate, whatever they meant, he was not 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 89 
 
 alone against his enemies! But after all, who 
 could have sent them to him if not Tarn or 
 Hawkins? And it would be many weeks be 
 fore Hawkins could wave a lantern on a cold 
 winter night. Tarn, then! This mystery girl 
 still playing a double role ! Pete sauntered to 
 the door and looked out. Buller sat alone at 
 the table gazing fixedly toward Peter. He 
 beckoned to Pete now to come to the table, and 
 as he watched him approach, he ran his hand 
 nervously over his stringy hair. 
 
 "Jes in case ya might fergit it," he began, 
 u yer not expected to leave. In case ya do," he 
 continued, "yer gonna be plugged, and the first 
 crooked work from the outside, even if ya 
 don t try to get away, means you ve bumped 
 Hawkins." 
 
 "That all?" Pete was becoming tired of the 
 same harangue from Buller. 
 
 "No, I want to know somethin ." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "How long was Tamarack in that room 
 with you?" 
 
 "Only to help dress Hawkins wound, so 
 far as I know." 
 
 "An did you lug her mattress in there?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Did Hawkins talk to her?" 
 
 "No." 
 
90 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Then, how did she know" Buller caught 
 himself, as though he had spoken words in 
 tended to be concealed. 
 
 "How did she know what?" Peter de 
 manded. 
 
 To evade or refuse to answer, would be to 
 show fear. That was exactly what Buller did 
 not want, especially since, for some unaccount 
 able reason, he did fear the man before him. 
 
 "How did she know where Hawkins cached 
 the wad?" Buller blurted. 
 
 "Perhaps you d better ask her. That s 
 what / would have to do." 
 
 "Maybe she doesn t know," Bull blustered, 
 his eyes studying Pete s expression, "and any 
 how, Slim s already on the way. This thing s 
 gettin on my nerves." 
 
 "Don t know why you re so dead set against 
 me," Pete started on a new tack, hoping against 
 hope that something might develop. 
 
 "Oh, yes ya do, yer a wise un, all right; 
 Gopher an you goin to frame me, huh? Not 
 Buller Garret. Oh, don t try to look igno 
 rant," he went on, observing Pete s mystified 
 expression. "I m on to you, way ahead o you. 
 Tain t the first time that old mountain goat s 
 been tryin to fasten sumpin onto me if I 
 thought he was talkin ," Buller s face clouded, 
 as a new thought apparently entered his head. 
 "Well, we wouldn t wait fer the five thousand 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 91 
 
 they re givin fer you. That s more n likely the 
 bunk, too, seein yer from Frisco. Guys with an 
 old man fer a banker don t act like you; looks 
 queer to me. Shouldn t a let him go to her," 
 Bull seemed talking to himself now. "He ll 
 be speakin all he knows afore the sun comes 
 up." 
 
 The two gangsters came back into the room 
 dragging straw mattresses behind them. Pete, 
 seeing that Buller was apparently through talk 
 ing, went again to his room. For fully five 
 minutes he gazed intently toward the moun 
 tains. The light did not reappear. Whatever 
 the significance, he knew it did not beckon him 
 to come to it. That something favorable was 
 brewing in the hills from whence it came he 
 had no doubt, but just what his part in what was 
 to happen would be, he could not imagine. 
 
 Pete had profited much by his short talk 
 with Buller, the escaped convict as Pete had 
 set him down to be. He was undoubtedly from 
 San Francisco, judging by his reference to the 
 place, Pete mused probably one of the many 
 criminals who seem to be satisfied to live in 
 crime, so long as they escape its consequence, 
 until by some freak chance they cross the path 
 of a woman, who fans into a frenzy their desire 
 to live, and exaggerates the chances of capture. 
 Buller and Tarn meant something to each other, 
 of that Pete felt certain. He had seen what 
 
92 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 the influence of a good woman had done for 
 men before. In some, it had awakened slumber 
 ing conscience, lifting them from paths of de 
 generacy to useful lives. But in these men, the 
 soul of life had always been there, it had only 
 slept. Buller Garret was different. Steeped 
 in slimy, wilful crime, he had long ago lost the 
 spark of manhood, if he had ever had it. Tam 
 arack Sue then, must have merely inflamed the 
 animal passion within him that craved life, and 
 exaggerated the chances of losing it. This, 
 surely, accounted for his suspicions of Haw 
 kins, and some one exceedingly clever knew 
 how to use this suspicion. 
 
 As he went over the details of his conclu 
 sions, Pete paused at the door and looked once 
 more at Buller, as though to confirm his judg 
 ment. While Alguin and his companions ar 
 ranged mattresses for the night, Buller kept 
 his seat, nervously stacking and re-stacking 
 little piles of poker chips. Seeing Pete in the 
 doorway he reached for a new package of play 
 ing cards and, as though to demonstrate his 
 unconcern, he broke it open and laid out a hand 
 of solitaire. Pete observed how Buller s greasy 
 fingers, some nearly black from fixing the wood 
 fire behind him, smudged the glossy white of 
 the cards. 
 
 The mind of man is his greatest ally when 
 serious danger seems near, and now as Pete 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 93 
 
 gazed at the cards before Buller, a plan, cer 
 tain and definite, formed itself as though by 
 magic. Striding rapidly forward he asked per 
 mission to go to the wash-room. As he passed 
 he noticed how Garret sat directly in front of 
 the fire and always seemed cold. He observed 
 that he had even had his mattress laid out as 
 close to the fire as the table would permit. He 
 stumbled slightly over this mattress as he 
 crossed the room. As he returned he retraced 
 his steps carefully, and this time stumbling 
 heavily over the mattress, plunged headlong 
 into the table. The impact sent the table crash 
 ing over almost to the burning edge of the logs 
 and in the general confusion that followed, Pete 
 worked fast. Deftly he snatched several play 
 ing cards from the floor and jammed them deep 
 into his pocket; others he pitched into the fire. 
 All this required but the work of a second. 
 Regaining his feet he found himself looking into 
 the muzzles of three revolvers as he stammered 
 an apology. 
 
 u Ya might not a meant it, but don t do it 
 again. Better go get locked up now." Buller 
 emphasized his words by waving his gun to 
 ward Pete s door. 
 
 Elated at his initial success, Pete entered 
 his room and heard the heavy lock close behind 
 him. He listened a moment, and heard one of 
 the gangsters drag a mattress to the door. They 
 
94 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 were certainly taking no chances, Pete mused, 
 as he shifted the box that held the lamp to the 
 bedside, and cautiously pulled a card from his 
 pocket. Even with his naked eye he could make 
 out the print of Buller s thumb. He counted 
 the cards, and found he had five of them 1 Two 
 he hid carefully in his boot top, and one beneath 
 his mattress; but the two that seemed to show 
 the best prints, he wrapped carefully in bits of 
 old paper and returned to his pockets. So far 
 his plan had worked excellently, but it is one 
 thing to have a sudden inspiration, quite an 
 other to nurse it along against seeming impos 
 sibilities. So thought Pete, as he studied long 
 and hard on the next step. 
 
 He thought of the light on the hill. It cer 
 tainly meant something! Perhaps a message 
 would come to him during the night. That was 
 it! The signal was to put him on his guard! 
 He went to the window. More wood had been 
 thrown in the fire and tongues of flame shot 
 high into the air, throwing a dancing light 
 nearly to his window. Certainly no messenger 
 could approach it from that side ! He took 
 stock once more of the room and observed 
 again how bare and square it was. Heavy 
 boards formed the partition and there were no 
 doors save the locked one just outside of which 
 a gangster slept. His eyes swept the ceiling 
 and he observed little cracks here and there, 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 95 
 
 but on the whole it presented a job well done ; 
 at least, no human could come through it! 
 
 Still, Pete refused to relax his vigil by the 
 window. The night must be two-thirds spent, 
 he guessed, and yet he doggedly refused to 
 sleep. The kerosene light sputtered, its yellow 
 flame giving way, little by little, to oily black 
 smoke. The guards outside, one sleeping while 
 the other watched, had kept the fire burning 
 brightly throughout the night. The room was 
 becoming bitterly cold, but the memory of his 
 coat and the man it covered, made the frost 
 in the air seem almost welcome. In spite of 
 himself, as the minutes dragged on, his head 
 refused to remain erect. Time after time it 
 sank limply forward, only to be jerked back by 
 an iron will. But nature could not be denied, 
 and the nods, following each other in rapid suc 
 cession, soon became fitful slumber. 
 
 A sudden feeling that he was not alone in 
 the room roused him with a start. He whirled 
 to face the door, and turned the sputtering wick 
 in the lamp higher, as he searched every corner 
 of the room. He was mistaken. Just another 
 trick of overwrought nerves, he told himself, 
 and settled back in his chair. He was hardly 
 settled when a creaking overhead brought him 
 again to his feet. Tap-tap-tap something 
 soft like a padded hammer was striking the 
 board above him. He located the spot, and as 
 
96 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 though fascinated, watched a knot, nearly two 
 inches wide, first crack at the center, then crum 
 ble and finally fall. Silence followed, as breath 
 lessly he waited, eyes glued on the hole. Then 
 fingers, lily white in the near-darkness, stole 
 through, and released a bit of folded paper, 
 plummet-like, straight into his lap. Moving 
 cautiously from the proximity of the window he 
 hurriedly opened the note and read: 
 
 "Escape means death to Hawkins and you. Slim s trip 
 to Jumbo Point and back will take ten days. Watch out 
 for Bull, he means to kill you. Hawkins safe for present. 
 Burn this, now. Tarn." 
 
 He read the words again, this time more 
 slowly. Then he removed the smoky chimney 
 of the lamp, and touched a corner of the paper 
 to the flame. Sudden light flooded the room 
 and Peter looked cautiously out at the guards. 
 But if they had seen it, they had no concern 
 over it, and Pete eagerly raised his eyes again 
 to the knothole. The fingers re-appeared and 
 a second note descended. Again Pete leaned 
 close to the light and read: "Three swings 
 come to light, two swings repeated three times, 
 Eliot returning. One complete circle at mid 
 night, Hawkins well, improving." 
 
 Pete crammed the code into his pocket and 
 stood face up under the hole. Fearing to speak 
 he made the motion of writing on his out 
 stretched palm, and almost immediately, his 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 97 
 
 answer came in the shape of a pencil and bit of 
 brown paper. Hurriedly he scribbled a note : 
 
 "Judge John Stivers, 
 Pacific Club, San Francisco. 
 
 Innocent of robbery. Now in gangsters 
 hands. One move to save me might mean 
 death. Get complete criminal record of Buller 
 Garret, whose finger prints are inclosed on 
 card. Hurry record to Tamarack Sue, address 
 inclosed. Peter." 
 
 Quickly he folded the message over the 
 cards from his pocket and stretched his arm 
 toward the ceiling. A foot of space intervened, 
 but he mounted the bed and leaned far over. 
 Then for a moment the slender fingers of the 
 messenger met his. He whispered excitedly, 
 "Put your address in; bring answer to me." 
 Pete started at the icy coldness of the fingers 
 he held, as he waited for a whispered answer. 
 But none came, and even the fingers lingered 
 for only a moment, and Pete knew that she had 
 gone. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 x B COWARD a miniature valley, far up on 
 -* the mountainside, nestling between tall 
 tamaracks that stood out like sentinels against 
 the background of snow, Tamarack Sue, or 
 Tarn, as she was called, made her way. 
 
 Quickly she glided along, leaving scarcely 
 a trace on the frozen crust of wind-swept snow. 
 Accustomed as she was to mountain life and the 
 rigours of winter, the strain of the last few days 
 had nevertheless drawn heavily upon her vital 
 ity. Emerging at last over the remaining steep 
 ridge of the trail she entered her cabin, and 
 closed the door softly behind her, then sank 
 wearily down on a huge bearskin rug before 
 a smouldering grate fire and slept. The trip 
 to the prison-house had been a hard one, indeed 
 few men could have made it in the short time 
 she had been on the trail. Exhausted now, she 
 slept heavily and far into the morning. 
 
 Arising at last, greatly refreshed, but still 
 with the haunted, haggard look in her eyes, 
 she hastily prepared a meal for two and opened 
 a door that led into the only other room in 
 the house. In this room on a wide, comfort 
 able bed, lay Hawkins. He had drawn heavily 
 upon the store of strength that clean living and 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 99 
 
 a rugged constitution gave him. His fever was 
 gone now, and he could talk, if his nurse would 
 permit him. Instead she had her finger to her 
 lips even as she opened the door. 
 
 "Now, not a word," she whispered softly 
 as she carried light food to his bedside. "I 
 have lots and lots to tell you, but first of all I 
 must rush away again. I must meet the morning 
 train, I have important letters to mail. Eat 
 now." 
 
 As she carried the food in spoonfuls to his 
 lips she talked: 
 
 "Buller will be here today, and you must 
 be very sick. If you must talk, tell him I have 
 gone for medicine, that you think I ll be back 
 too late with it the way you feel. Please don t 
 talk unless you have to. Your friend is safe; I 
 saw him last night." 
 
 The food he ate gave him strength, but the 
 sight of the girl herself, a mere child she 
 seemed, and one more fitted for the parlor than 
 the sinister work of the last few days, was a 
 tonic that only nature, master physician, could 
 prescribe. 
 
 With the fondness of a doting grandfather 
 Hawkins followed her every movement. How 
 sweet and wholly feminine she seemed in her 
 simple woolen skirt, close fitting sweater and 
 high leather shoes! Hair, ordinarily fluffy and 
 light, struggled hard against the severe re- 
 
100 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 straint of braids that fell carelessly over her 
 shoulders, as she bent over him. 
 
 In twenty-four hours time she had won a 
 complete victory over the honest doubts of the 
 mountaineer. And little wonder ! He loved a 
 fighter of any kind, but here was one, a mere 
 girl, waging a fight almost single-handed 
 against gangsters at one end, and the Salmon 
 River Gold Company at the other. 
 
 She had poured out her pathetic story as 
 soon after his trip to her house as possible. 
 And such a story! Until the death of Dan 
 Morgan, her father, she explained, life had 
 been one glorious season after another in the 
 mountains she loved so well. Moapa schools 
 had given her all the education she had, but 
 she was happy because her brother Hal, and 
 her voice had choked at mention of his name, 
 was attending a University in the west; and 
 their little mine, The Glory Hole, could not 
 send them both to school. Then, only two 
 years before, trouble had come. Just when 
 they were certain a big strike was imminent at 
 the Glory Hole Mine, the men quit working. 
 For some strange reason, it seemed impossible 
 to get more. When they did manage to start 
 up, a terrible explosion had occurred, burying 
 four of the men and most of their tools, be 
 sides placing obstacles in the way of striking 
 the expected gold that would require months to 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 101 
 
 remove. All this preyed heavily on the mind 
 of old Dan, her father. He could not sleep 
 nights, and he pecked away hopelessly and alone 
 hy day at the mass of muck in the tunnel, never 
 giving up hope. The strain had lasted with 
 him nearly six months before it ended in a little 
 grave beneath the tamaracks. For months 
 before the tragic end, Tarn had kept letters to 
 her father from Hal, letters pleading for 
 money, carefully hidden away. Hal had been 
 unable to come to the simple little funeral, and 
 his letters grew farther and farther apart. 
 
 Then J. D. Browning came into her life. 
 Tenderly he had sympathized with her in her 
 grief. Gallantly he offered her a contract, 
 calling for five thousand shares of stock in the 
 proposed Salmon River Gold Co., Inc., for her 
 mine, which was, as he pointed out, just a junk 
 heap. Even so, she had urged, the mine was all 
 she and her brother had and she refused to 
 trade it for the stock. At every turn Brown 
 ing continued to do what he could to help her, 
 until finally, simple girl that she was, she had 
 gracefully thanked him and agreed to the deal 
 if her brother, who had a half interest with her 
 under the will her father left, would also sign. 
 Weeks passed before Hal finally wrote that 
 the Salmon River Gold Co. must be a fake, 
 as it was almost wholly unknown where he had 
 made inquiries and anyhow he would have noth- 
 
102 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 ing to do with it. Then after weeks of silence, 
 Susie had received a second letter, stating 
 simply that her brother had changed his mind 
 about the Company and had signed the con 
 tract. Tarn s signature followed his and she 
 prepared to leave the little cabin beneath the 
 tamaracks, to live in Moapa. When she ap 
 plied for stock or money, however, she was 
 gently but firmly given to understand by Hous 
 ton, the Company lawyer, that no stock or 
 money could be handed over until all the claims 
 along Gulch Creek had been secured. The 
 blow had been a shock to her, but she knew 
 nothing of business, and so could only wait 
 patiently for further developments. She wrote 
 to her brother for advice, but received no 
 answer. Then months and months passed, un 
 til, realizing the danger of her plight, Houston 
 had obligingly given her work as a clerk in 
 the Government Land Office. Here she had 
 heard rumors that had set her thinking, rumors 
 that became more and more persistent, until 
 finally she sought out J. D. Browning himself 
 and demanded an explanation. 
 
 Then it was that Browning, with greatly 
 affected emotion, told her that her brother, 
 needing money, had forged a check and was in 
 prison. Grief and humiliation stunned her, and 
 for a time she knew not which way to turn. In 
 desperation she wrote letter after letter to her 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 103 
 
 brother, but received only one message in re 
 ply. A message that stated simply, U I am in 
 nocent, mining lawyers responsible." After 
 this, she seemed to have lost faith in mankind, 
 she explained, and finally went alone to the 
 cabin beneath the tamaracks, that had once 
 been a happy home, and prayed for guidance. 
 
 There it was, beside her father s cold grave, 
 that she had sworn vengeance against Brown 
 ing and the Salmon River Gold Co. 
 
 She opened her campaign of vengeance by 
 feigning complete submission, and begging 
 Browning to tell her what she might do to keep 
 her brother s plight from becoming known. 
 Browning was quick to use her and gradually, 
 as weeks passed into months, she worked into 
 his schemes and plans, until at last she became 
 his trusted propagandist among the miners she 
 knew, obviously working for Browning s cause. 
 It was on this service that she had first met 
 Hawkins, and while she had met him only 
 casually, nevertheless, so well did she play her 
 part, that Hawkins set her down at once as a 
 clever agent of the Company. 
 
 Here, too, she had met Buller Garret and 
 his gang. Early in their acquaintance Buller 
 had become infatuated with her, and this com 
 bined with her habit of eavesdropping from the 
 attic of the cabin, made it much easier for her 
 to collect odds and ends of events that ex- 
 
104 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 plained many mysterious happenings in the 
 hills. By the merest chance she had happened 
 upon Buller the very day his gang set out to 
 ambush Hawkins and Peter. At first she had 
 pleaded with him to shed no blood, but 
 instantly saw her mistake, for to show the slight 
 est sympathy or concern for any other man, 
 sealed his death warrant if Garret had the au 
 thority from headquarters to back him up. She 
 had succeeded, however, in persuading him to 
 spare the life of Hawkins long enough to per 
 mit her to find out the true location of the myth 
 ical fifty thousand dollars of which she had 
 overheard Alguin and his mate talk. 
 
 So far matters were yet well in hand, but 
 Tarn was becoming visibly alarmed at the sullen 
 mood in which she found Buller on their last 
 meeting, and she soon became convinced that 
 it would require all of the cunning she could 
 muster if she was to keep Hawkins alive until 
 Eliot returned. What would happen after that, 
 she dared not think. Even at the thought if it, 
 she shuddered. She ended her story in sobs, 
 and complained bitterly against the horror of it 
 all! 
 
 Little wonder, then, that Hawkins looked 
 upon her with something akin to sheer wonder, 
 as she finished feeding him and made ready for 
 the gruelling trip to Moapa. Before she left 
 his bedside, she let him read the note she was 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 105 
 
 to post, and seemed pleased when he nodded his 
 head in warm approval, as he handed the envel 
 ope back. 
 
 "God bless you, child," he murmured fer 
 vently, as she tidied up the crude little sick 
 room and closed the door behind her. 
 
 For nearly an hour Hawkins lay there, 
 staring at the ceiling and going over and over 
 again the pathetic story of the child who now 
 held his life in her hands. Then the door 
 opened again and Duller Garret entered! 
 Triumph, or momentary gloating, something 
 certainly, was struggling for supremacy over 
 the sullen expression of fear in the lowering 
 face of the gangster. Hawkins felt certain 
 Buller must have met Susie on the trail. 
 
 "Didn t work, huh?" Buller came to the 
 point at once. 
 
 Hawkins indicated mystery at the question 
 as best he could with his eyes. 
 
 "Oh, hell, you ve been talkin* all right, I m 
 wise to ya, but ya can t queer me," Buller 
 paused and seemed to dwell again on the scene 
 he must have had on the trail below. Then, 
 apparently satisfied, but craving more to come, 
 he resumed his words. "Now, listen to me, 
 Hawkins," he began, as he pulled a chair close 
 to the bedside, "yer not quite done fer yet, even 
 if she does think ya might be." Another rem 
 iniscent pause, and then he went on. "Ya know 
 
106 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 why we got rough with ya? Thought ya d 
 dig up some old stuff on me, huh? Well, I was 
 wise all along. Those checks didn t figger." 
 This, at least, was strange talk to Hawkins. 
 "But the other stuff did. J. D. wised me all 
 along how ya was trying to dig up some of the 
 deals around here an fasten em onto me." 
 Hawkins was learning things. Replying as best 
 he could with his face and eyes, he kept the man 
 talking. 
 
 "Don t know how much ya think ya know. 
 That s what I m takin a chance on. But I 
 just slipped up here to buzz ya on one point, 
 whatever ya think ya know, fergit it. Fergit 
 what happened in old Dan s mine, most of all." 
 
 Buller s cunning eyes watched narrowly the 
 effect of his words, but Hawkins acted well, and 
 Buller discovered little that either confirmed or 
 disproved his suspicions. 
 
 "There s nobody hittin this Tamarack trail 
 but me and Sue," he finally resumed, "so don t 
 ya go figurin on anybody from the outside. 
 If yer do, it won t be healthy fer ya, or yer 
 scissor-bill friend down at the shacks. Don t 
 want any strangers to come sittin in on our 
 game." So saying, he walked leisurely about the 
 room, until his roaming glance fell on bits of 
 feminine apparel, that until now had escaped 
 him. His eyes brightened, and he sucked in 
 saliva with air in deep breaths, as he looked at 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 107 
 
 them. A faded slip of blue, which anyone but 
 Bull would have recognized as the remnants of 
 happy girlhood days, caught his eye. Close by, 
 and partly covering it, hung a huge fur coat. 
 He dwelled on it for a moment, and his face 
 darkened. He had seen the coat before, on 
 Peter Alden. The expression of a thug wield 
 ing a black-jack played on his face, as he hurled 
 the offending garment from its wooden peg, and 
 kicked it to the corner of the room. Would he 
 never quit associating the two? He cursed, and 
 bit his lips as he stood scowling at the crumpled 
 coat. He turned again to the faded blue dress 
 and continued his brooding silence. 
 
 Hawkins looked into a new face when Buller 
 again approached his bedside. Murder was 
 written there ! Not honest manly anger, but 
 venom inflamed by distorted promptings of the 
 inner man, long sick. 
 
 Yet he said not a word, as he gathered up 
 his coat and cap and made for the door. 
 
 Hawkins, alone again, shivered at the 
 thought of his fellow-prisoner, in the cabin be 
 low. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "T"YDN T tell me about it, John, don t tell me 
 -*^ about it." The feeble voice of Alden, 
 Sr., could scarcely be heard against the roar of 
 pounding waves. "You saw his letter, so did I. 
 Now you have the truth/ he wrote. He s 
 dead in here, John, he s best dead in here 1" 
 Alden indicated his heart, as he tapped uncer 
 tainly, and looked, dry-eyed far out into the sea. 
 
 Day after day, Judge Stivers had been with 
 him, comforting, reassuring, trying desperately 
 to check the tide of melancholy bitterness that 
 was fast engulfing his friend. Clubs, theatres, 
 hosts of friends at the house, even golf, failed 
 to penetrate the dry painful stare in the eyes 
 of the once proud old man. 
 
 Today the Judge had tried the beach, but 
 so far with disappointing results. He tried 
 hard to tell Alden how detectives were proceed 
 ing with their work. Though he had little to tell 
 him, certainly, still he would cheerfully have 
 perjured himself a hundred times rather than 
 witness the constant grief his friend was suf 
 fering. 
 
 For over an hour they sat thus in the sun; 
 neither speaking, each apparently watching the 
 oily sea lions pop up from foaming waves, shake 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 109 
 
 their heads in the spray and glide back into the 
 water. 
 
 Alden spoke : "Then, why doesn t he deny 
 it, why doesn t he come here?" For an instant 
 he had forgotten himself, and the rest of the 
 sentence slipped back on the silent track of his 
 mind, where it continued its circuit, starting and 
 ending always in the same place. 
 
 But the few words had given Judge Stivers 
 the proof he wanted. Alden, in spite of him 
 self, still doubted his son s guilt! Faint as the 
 doubt might be, it was there. It must be fed, 
 enlarged, until it crowded out the dense black 
 ness of utter abandon and despondency from 
 his heart. Rapier-like the skilled jurist thrust 
 questions and problems at his friend, none seem 
 ingly near the thought in both of their minds, 
 yet all, nevertheless, used for a purpose. 
 
 As they talked, clouds gathered in the sky, 
 and a sudden rift played sunshine like a spot 
 light on the seal rocks before them. 
 
 "See those seals, Peter?" John s stick 
 pointed out the playful animals. 
 
 "Yes, John. I ve been watching them." 
 
 "But, do you notice that some of them have 
 been perfectly still on the rocks these two 
 hours?" 
 
 "Yes, some of them have, I believe." 
 
 "And some of them are constantly scam 
 pering about?" 
 
110 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Yes, some of them, yes, I ve noticed it." 
 
 "But do you notice that the ones lying so 
 quietly there in the sun, are mostly old ones, 
 Peter?" 
 
 Peter s eyes had been looking in the direc 
 tion of the seal rocks, but seeing far, far beyond. 
 Now he stirred himself as though from a dream, 
 and observed more closely the movements of 
 the animals the Judge so insistently pointed out. 
 
 "What was it you asked me, John? Excuse 
 me, but the waves are so noisy here." 
 
 "I was wondering if you noticed that those 
 seals out there, the ones that are quiet so long, 
 are mostly the old, full grown ones?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, yes. So they are. Strange, 
 isn t it?" 
 
 "No, quite natural, I think. Now take the 
 youngsters there. There goes one now, see 
 him flap his tail against the old duffer? Now 
 watch him." 
 
 Alden was beginning to take an interest in 
 the antics of the seals. 
 
 "See," continued the Judge, "he deliber 
 ately waited for that big breaker before he 
 plunged. See, the old one hardly noticed him." 
 Stivers watched his friend closely from the 
 corner of his eyes. 
 
 "You d think he d go in after him, wouldn t 
 you?" old Alden mused. 
 
 "Yes," Stivers hesitated, "one would think 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 1 1 1 
 
 so, but you see, seals understand each other, 
 I guess. Look, now the youngster is gone for 
 good it seems. Yet the old one has not even 
 flapped a fin! Only his head in the air, notice 
 that? But wait a minute, the youngster will 
 come back. It s all in the game of bucking the 
 waves, I guess. Yes, yes, there he comes, look, 
 right over the top of the rock. Ha ! Ha ! Good 
 for you, youngster!" Even Alden had become 
 interested, as the baby seal came playfully down 
 the shiny rock, after its long plunge in the foam 
 ing waves. 
 
 "You see, Peter, the old one is wise after 
 all; that youngster s got to face the ocean alone 
 some day, and he knows he must learn to buck 
 the waves now." 
 
 "Well, he s a thoroughbred, John, he surely 
 picked a big one," Alden mused, with just a 
 flicker of his old self in his expression. 
 
 The eyes of the dear old friends met, and 
 something passed between them, something 
 warm and comforting. Perhaps it was a silent 
 message from one man s soul to another. 
 
 As they arose to go, Peter s arm tenderly 
 encircled the slim waist of his friend. "John," 
 he said, "it s good to have you around. Come 
 home with me, tonight, won t you?" 
 
 "Business first, then pleasure," cheerfully 
 answered the Judge. "I ve some business at 
 the office, then I ll come out and give you the 
 
112 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 worst lam-basting you ve had in your entire 
 pinochle career!" 
 
 "Judge, you re a darned hard cuss to beat, 
 guess that s why I like you. But I ll teach you 
 yet, that you can t beat an Alden. The cards 
 will be ready when you come, John. Good 
 bye." 
 
 As Judge Stivers made his way toward his 
 office, he breathed his first sigh of relief in four 
 teen days. He entered his private suite almost 
 briskly, gathered up his mail, and sat running 
 it impatiently through his fingers, keeping his 
 eyes the while on the door as though expecting 
 a visitor. 
 
 Promptly at six the door opened, and a 
 keen looking man of perhaps forty, with heavy 
 head, a square face and grey cropped mustache, 
 that blended harmoniously with silver-sprinkled 
 hair, entered. The frame and general de 
 meanor of the man stamped him at once as a 
 detective. 
 
 Stivers fairly bounced out of his chair as 
 he prepared to receive the expected report: 
 "Well, out with it, report, report!" he snapped, 
 by way of greeting. For a Judge he was un 
 commonly impatient, but his visitor was ap 
 parently used to him. 
 
 u Not much to report, Judge, so far," he 
 replied, quite cheerfully. "Can t find hide nor 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 113 
 
 hair of young Alden, and I guess it s just as 
 well." 
 
 "What do you mean, sir, just as well ?" 
 
 "I mean, it looks more every day as though 
 he did steal the money." 
 
 "Bah, I thought you were a detective. He 
 didn t do it. Don t I know? I ve been facing 
 criminals for forty years, and I know them. 
 That boy isn t half as much of a thief as you 
 are!" 
 
 Sherman Mays, head of Mays Detect 
 ive Agency, winced. He had been serving 
 John Stivers for a dozen years or more, and 
 he knew only too well the accuracy of the Judge 
 in classifying men with whom he came in con 
 tact. 
 
 "Anyhow," the Judge continued, "I ve been 
 noticing lately that you re beginning to use a 
 lot of new-fangled methods, and forgetting the 
 good old hustling you used to do." 
 
 Mays balked at this. "Why did he run 
 away, Judge, and where did he run to?" he 
 asked significantly. 
 
 "How do I know?" Stivers snapped. 
 "That s what I came all the way down here 
 for, to find out." 
 
 "And how do you account for the letter to 
 his father?" Mays continued. 
 
 "Don t have to account for it. You re on 
 the wrong track, Sherman. Can t I knock it 
 
114 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 into your head that he s innocent?" The pep 
 pery old man spelled out the word I-n-n-o-c-e-n-t. 
 "I gave positive instructions that you re to go 
 on the assumption that he s not guilty." In 
 his anger the Judge banged the handful of un 
 opened letters on the desk before him, half 
 of them shooting off into Mays lap. 
 
 Mays welcomed the opportunity to do most 
 anything rather than look into the face of the 
 irate Judge. As he slowly gathered the letters 
 together and handed them back, the Judge 
 commenced opening them in a mechanical sort 
 of way, apparently desiring his words to sink 
 in before continuing his tirade. 
 
 A special delivery letter, addressed in a 
 distinctive feminine hand, caught his eye. 
 
 With more than ordinary attention he ran 
 the keen blade of a paper knife the length of 
 it and shook out the contents. What he saw 
 changed his entire demeanor, and when he 
 spoke again, even the detective caught the poor 
 ly suppressed excitement the letter had evident 
 ly created. 
 
 "Now Sherman, here is something," he 
 announced. "This girl, or woman, writes from 
 Moapa, Montana; she says well here, read it 
 yourself." 
 
 Mays went carefully over the letter, enclo 
 sures, and even examined the postmarks on the 
 envelope before he replied : 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 115 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" 
 
 "That this card will tell who did the trick, 
 of course." 
 
 "But, Judge, do you ^see this, Don t turn 
 a finger to help him yet, and this, He s in 
 much graver danger than an ordinary burglar, 
 which he isn t, would be, Judge, there s some 
 thing queer about all this." 
 
 "That s what I think." The Judge stroked 
 his Van Dyke meditatively. "This signature 
 is young Alden s writing all right, no mistake 
 about that. He says, Don t help, too. Funny, 
 Sherman, isn t it? Most of the letter is written 
 by the woman, too." 
 
 "Let s see the name at the bottom of that 
 letter again, Judge. Thanks." Sherman stud 
 ied it long, and carefully. "Morgan, Mor 
 gan Susie Morgan, Moapa." He repeated 
 the words slowly. "Seems right enough. Who s 
 this she talks about, Garret, Buller Garret? 
 That s probably a new fixture he s taken on, 
 whoever he is. So they think he s got a 
 record. Well, we can find out about that any 
 how." 
 
 "Sherman, I m going out to the house 
 Alden s. Can you get a line on this record, to 
 night?" 
 
 "Certainly, if he s got one, I can." 
 
 "Good, look it over and if it s out of the 
 ordinary no, no matter what it is, phone me 
 
116 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 at Alden s. Phone me, anyhow, but don t start 
 anything new and drop whatever you ve been 
 doing, which isn t very much, scarcely anything, 
 as far as I can see," the Judge added signifi 
 cantly, "until we can talk this over again. You 
 have my number? All right, at the house." 
 
 Detective Mays took the tell-tale playing 
 card, handed back to Judge Stivers the letter 
 that came with it and both left the office. 
 
 "Ought to feel good at getting a little day 
 light into this thing," the Judge remarked to 
 Mays in the corridor, "but for some reason or 
 other, I m beginning to feel worse about it. 
 Hope you find a record, Mays. Get it as soon 
 as you can, won t you? Fine! Good-bye, till I 
 hear from you." 
 
 Judge Stivers found Alden as despondent as 
 he could ever remember seeing him. The cards 
 he had promised almost enthusiastically when 
 they parted, were not in evidence, and instead 
 Alden sat motionless, gazing into the grate fire, 
 hardly turning at all to greet the Judge. But 
 Stivers was becoming accustomed to these 
 strange spells, and made no comment, as he 
 drew his chair alongside, and gazed long into 
 the fire before he spoke. A sudden burst of 
 flame broke the spell: 
 
 "Fire feels comfortable these nights, 
 Peter." 
 
 "Yes, John, very comfortable." 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 117 
 
 "You re burning eucalyptus logs, aren t 
 you?" 
 
 "I believe they are, yes, they are eucalyp 
 tus." 
 
 "When they blaze that way, Peter, they 
 throw out a perfume, don t they?" 
 
 "A perfume, yes. Yes, they throw out a 
 perfume." 
 
 "But not much heat, when they blaze." 
 
 "You re comfortable, though, John?" 
 Peter almost eagerly made to ring a bell. 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, quite, thank you, don t ring. 
 I was just noting how the logs burned, that is 
 all." 
 
 "Yes, John, the logs." 
 
 "I was just saying, when they flame, they 
 throw out perfume, but not so much heat." 
 
 "But all logs are that way, aren t they, 
 John?" 
 
 "Yes, the heat is there, though, but it s 
 when they re reduced to solid coals that you 
 feel it most." 
 
 "I often sit here, John, long after the flames 
 are gone." 
 
 "Even the coals that are covered with dead 
 grey ashes are hot inside, aren t they, Peter?" 
 
 "Yes, very hot; hardwood always makes 
 hot logs." 
 
 "They must be, Peter, or the new ones you 
 
118 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 throw on would never burn, they could never 
 get started without them." 
 
 The butler approached and threw some logs 
 on the fire. 
 
 Alden shifted in his chair. 
 
 "You know, John, I ve had an idea lately 
 that you think I m old. Tomorrow I believe 
 I m going to take you out and put you in your 
 proper place. What do you say to a little 
 golf?" 
 
 "Maybe I don t think you re getting old, 
 Peter, but your memory is certainly getting 
 tired, or something. Here I came over to beat 
 you at a game of pinochle." 
 
 "That s right, John, you re right, well, 
 that s one on me. I say," calling the butler, 
 "the cards." Then turning again to the Judge : 
 "Well, we ll settle this card game right off, in 
 short order." 
 
 Three hours later they were still playing. 
 The Judge was becoming nervous. Twice he 
 forgot to draw cards. 
 
 "John, you d think that telephone was re 
 sponsible for my walloping you. Leave it 
 alone. The way you are looking at it . . ." 
 
 The butler announced a gentleman to see 
 Judge Stivers. 
 
 "Show him in here." Alden interrupted 
 before Stivers could arise from the table. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 119 
 
 "Don t get up, John, bring your friend right 
 here." 
 
 The Judge started to protest, but was in 
 terrupted by the sudden appearance of Detec 
 tive Mays. Alden recognized the man, and 
 instantly his pleasant humor of the past few 
 hours departed, and left him struggling with 
 emotion, sorely wounded pride and undecided 
 will. He hesitated a moment, then said slowly: 
 
 "I ll be in the library when you are through, 
 John." Then, without a word or further 
 glance at the detective, he left the room. 
 
 Stivers turned quickly to Mays and asked, 
 "Did you get it?" 
 
 "Yes, I got it. Fine bird!" 
 "Let s see it." 
 
 Stivers unrolled a bundle of papers and 
 read: 
 
 "James Hogan, alias Jimmie Duffy, alias Buller Gar 
 ret, age 38, weight 140 pounds, height five feet five 
 inches, hair and eyes black, skin yellow, slightly pock 
 marked, escaped from San Quention 19.... while serving 
 
 life term for murder. Wanted for murder of . 
 
 Member of famous gang of crooks and gunmen. Last 
 seen near Maysville, Cal., heading east, desperate 
 character, will stop at nothing." 
 
 "No mistake about all this?" Stivers tapped 
 the paper with his forefinger. 
 
 "Absolutely none, finger-prints tallied per 
 fectly. Chief tells me he s one of the worst 
 gangsters San Francisco s ever had." 
 
120 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Hum, let s read those letters again." 
 
 The two men took seats and carefully went 
 over the messages Tarn, or Susie Morgan, as 
 she signed her name, had sent. At the end of 
 an hour, the conference showed signs of break 
 ing up, but not until Judge Stivers had finished 
 writing a letter. 
 
 "This will give them enough to call out the 
 State Militia, if necessary," he remarked, as he 
 handed the sheets to Mays. "Post this 
 at once. Better stop all investigations until we 
 get a reply; both of them have warned us to do 
 nothing yet, you know, and we d better go 
 easy." 
 
 "Very well, sir." So saying, Mays took the 
 letter and departed. 
 
 Stivers joined Alden in the library. "You 
 know, Peter," he said, as though forming a plan 
 aloud, which was meant only for his own mind, 
 "I believe a brisker climate, snappier air, would 
 do you good." 
 
 "Snappier air?" Alden fairly shouted, 
 "I m freezing now; thought you fellows never 
 would leave that fire !" 
 
 "That s because your blood s thin, Peter, 
 that s all. Now I m called away on some per 
 sonal business to Montana," he emphasized the 
 "personal" with as significant a look as possi- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 121 
 
 ble, then continued. "Don t know when I ll go, 
 but if I do, you ve got to come along." 
 
 "Well," old Alden reflected testily, "guess 
 I am seeing too much of the old things. I ll 
 see, I ll think it over." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 " . . . And that s all I have, all I have 
 after these many months. Isn t it discoura 
 ging, Mr. Hawkins?" The latter, leaning back 
 against soft pillows, took little slips of paper, 
 one at a time, from Tarn s hand, and read each 
 one with care, as she explained its meaning. 
 
 The slips of paper represented all of the 
 notes, dates and facts Susie had been able to 
 collect in waging her lone battle of vengeance 
 against the Salmon River Gold Co., Inc. 
 
 "I m afraid we re too late, little girl, we re 
 much too late. You should have come to me, 
 or to someone, months ago," was Hawkins 
 only comment as he finished reading. 
 
 "Oh, I wanted to, so badly, but whom could 
 I trust? Everyone seemed in with them! And 
 then my poor brother ! I couldn t let anyone 
 here know of him! But I did intend getting 
 help, after I had done all I could. You see, I 
 knew so little of business, Mr. Hawkins. But 
 tell me, why am I too late?" Yet, even as she 
 spoke, Tarn knew that the task she had under 
 taken was far too great, and that Hawkins was 
 right after all. 
 
 "You ve signed away your mine, Tarn, and 
 so have the other small placer claim holders 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 123 
 
 along both sides of the creek; Browning owns 
 Salmon Tooth Pass, so even if you had your 
 claims restored, how could you come in and 
 out? They are too strong, Tarn, too strong. 
 Why, they wanted my Dead Horse Mine. I 
 held out, and look what they ve done to me !" 
 In spite of his emaciated face his jaw muscles 
 bulged as he contemplated on this last remark. 
 
 "But if I can prove they really stole those 
 claims from dozens of miners, and that they 
 don t intend developing them, that they only 
 want to sell stock, won t they be compelled to 
 give them back?" 
 
 Trove it!" Hawkins winced with pain as 
 he snorted the words. "How? Every office 
 is filled with Company men ! Even the Land 
 office is bulging with them; what chance have 
 you?" 
 
 "But the others! They will all find out 
 that their contracts are valueless; surely they 
 will rise up and demand their rights," Tarn 
 protested. 
 
 "Yes, some of them will, Tarn, some of 
 them; but the miners aren t together. Spies 
 are everywhere! Where is Jonas? Here, 
 look!" Hawkins selected a yellow slip, Tarn s 
 own note. "Here you are, disappeared, it 
 reads, that s what happend to one miner that 
 talked too much. Here s another, Crabtree, 
 old Silas Crabtree. Made a complaint on Mon- 
 
124 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 day, threatened action, disappeared on the fol 
 lowing Wednesday. Something weird and mys 
 terious about it, Tarn. Don t you see how they 
 work? The miners haven t a chance, not a 
 chance !" Hawkins clenched his fist and 
 groaned in evident pain. 
 
 "Then you mean," Tarn asked testily, "that 
 we will all lose our property, all of us, who 
 have worked so hard and so long?" 
 
 "I m afraid so, Tarn, I m beginning to think 
 you will. I ve tried to warn them all, but they 
 called me an old gopher, and laughed at my 
 advice. I thought I would strike something at 
 the Dead Horse, and fight the Company 
 back, but that s over, too, I guess." 
 
 "But you said you had a trick to turn, or 
 something; surely you know some way it can 
 be stopped; it can t be all lost! Oh, that would 
 be too terrible ! All these people, all of them 
 cheated and ruined, it can t be ! It must be 
 stopped!" Susie s eyes sparkled with anger as 
 she spoke. 
 
 "There s lots we might do, if I weren t 
 here, but there s no time for all this now, child. 
 It s seven days already since Slim Eliot started 
 for Jumbo Point. He ll be crossing the ridge 
 any day now, and when he comes," a worried 
 frown came over Hawkins face, "and when 
 he comes, even you, Tarn, won t be able to hold 
 Duller Garret back." 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 125 
 
 Tamarack Sue shuddered as she answered: 
 "I never saw him so terrible as he looked today, 
 Mr. Hawkins. I thought he must have known 
 of our signals, he questioned me so closely. I 
 wonder how Mr. Alden is? I ve been afraid 
 to go near the house again; the snow has been 
 so soft, that my tracks would surely show, but 
 he has signaled back every night! He s alive 
 at least. But what will happen when Eliot 
 returns? And he may return in the night! We 
 will never know! Oh, Mr. Hawkins, please 
 let me get the sheriff and stop it all ! He can 
 at least delay things; give us a chance . . ." 
 
 "That s just what you shouldn t do," 
 Hawkins replied firmly, "just as well ask J. D. 
 himself to help you. They would arrest Pete 
 for the robbery and for my murder. You re 
 forgetting these, little girl." Hawkins tapped 
 significantly at the slips of paper in his hand. 
 "Tell the sheriff and it will mean just one more 
 of these, that s all." 
 
 "But what can we do? We must do some 
 thing," Tarn protested, "I can t sit here and 
 see you both murdered!" A horrified look 
 came into her eyes. "It can t mean that, Mr. 
 Hawkins, have we no way of preventing it? 
 Oh, if Buller wasn t so awfully suspicious, if 
 he d only let me, I d I d Oh, Mr. Hawkins, 
 we must stop this thing!" Tears rolled down 
 
126 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 her cheeks as she buried her head in her arms 
 and sobbed. 
 
 Thoroughly aroused, Hawkins tried to calm 
 her. "But he isn t here yet. You got a signal, 
 tonight? Well, Eliot won t try to pass the 
 ridge at night; we have one more day, possibly 
 two. Many things can happen in a day. The 
 letter from San Francisco ! On the way six days 
 now; it should be here any time. Come, Tarn, 
 be brave, something will happen." 
 
 u But what can the letter do?" Tarn asked 
 through sobs. 
 
 "I don t know, but it will do something." 
 
 "If it only could," Tarn pulled herself up 
 with an effort, and dried her tears. "I ll go 
 again to Moapa in the morning, but I m so 
 afraid to leave you, Mr. Hawkins. If Eliot 
 should come while I m gone, then Buller will 
 find out, and he ll be terrible, just terrible; I 
 think sometimes the man is insane." 
 
 "You pack a gun?" Hawkins asked anx 
 iously, ignoring the danger he was soon to face, 
 and thinking only of the plucky girl beside him. 
 
 "Always," she answered, "and I thought 
 yesterday, I would use it. I carry it here." 
 Tarn indicated a little pocket over her hip, con 
 cealed by a fold in her sweater. "He looked at 
 me so strangely, when he asked if you were 
 better." 
 
 "Don t kill, Tarn, until you have to; these 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 127 
 
 things are worrying your mind beyond reason. 
 But don t let the grieving and worry get you, 
 Tarn, it doesn t pay. I ve been in these hills 
 twenty years and more; seen the old Alder 
 Gulch rush when men were killed by their own 
 brothers, all gold mad. Yes, and I ve seen 
 men crazy with liquor, killin for sport when 
 Moapa was only an Indian camp. But the 
 gold-rush days ended. So did the wild days in 
 the camp. Those times are all gone now, Tarn, 
 an we re having a new kind of war. Bad as 
 it was, a man could fight his own battles then. 
 But it s different now. They brought law in 
 then to stop murder and thieving; now they use 
 it to kill and steal in lots of ways I m not used 
 to. No, Tarn, guess I haven t got a trick to 
 turn, after all. They re fighting way over my 
 head now. We haven t a chance, not a chance. 
 There s you, ought to be making a home warm 
 and bright for some good man, yet, here you 
 are, half crazy and fighting wild, and still 
 you re not getting anywhere. Why don t you 
 quit it all, and go away from here? Let the 
 past go, Tarn, let it go. It hurts, I know, but 
 it s really past now, you see, and it can t come 
 back. The old days are gone, and you belong 
 to them, Tarn. You don t fit now, and there s 
 no use of you throwing yourself away." The 
 long speech tired the old man visibly, but the 
 
128 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 fervor of his words held Tarn fascinated un 
 til he had finished. 
 
 Then she replied in a strange, thin voice. 
 "Yes, Mr. Hawkins, I do belong to the old 
 days, just like you, but 7 can no more leave the 
 fight than you. Listen ! Hear the wind moan 
 ing through the tamaracks the tamaracks 
 over father s grave? Every night they speak 
 to me, urge me on and on ! No, there is noth 
 ing else for me, nothing else in life." Susie 
 hesitated and a shudder came over her. "What 
 must decent folks think of me? Living with 
 gangsters, one of them, for all people know. 
 Even Mr. Alden, the first time he saw me, 
 talked of of the Barbary Coast, and I know 
 what he meant! How I hated him for it!" 
 Her little hands clenched in anger. "But, I 
 can t let him die, because he s so innocent of 
 everything. But it doesn t matter what he, 
 or anyone else thinks of me now, Mr. Hawkins. 
 I m going to answer the tamaracks, and then, 
 when it s all over and my work is done, I ll go 
 back to the past. Don t you see, Mr. Hawkins, 
 I can t leave the fight, any more than you 
 can?" 
 
 "Yes, girl, I understand, I understand. But 
 you re all worked up now, we ve both talked 
 too long. You ve got to signal yet and get 
 some sleep. The fight seems to be in the dark, 
 but it might be a short one, Tarn, so better get 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 129 
 
 your rest, while you can. Good night, now, and 
 God bless you !" 
 
 Down below in the prison house, Pete 
 gazed fixedly out into the night. Hour after 
 hour the dreary week had dragged by, with 
 nothing to relieve the severe tension but the 
 weird swing of the lamp on the mountain side 
 at midnight. 
 
 Duller Garret seemed obsessed. Forced by 
 his own suspicions and lust, he himself was com 
 pelled to spend weary hours, sometimes alone, 
 in the house. The silence and monotony of the 
 thing made him wretched to the point of vio 
 lence. Alguin and his companions, too, sulked 
 in silence or played cards alone. Even Pete, 
 who heard nothing, was plainly aware that the 
 mission of Slim Eliot was working as a wedge 
 between the three. He had little hope from 
 this, however, as he knew only too well the re 
 port Slim Eliot would bring. He had expected 
 more visits from Susie, but the knot hole in the 
 ceiling remained black and dead. The message 
 to Judge Stivers was still the all-important 
 thing; yet he had no knowledge of its fate. He 
 was certain the Judge would reply, if he had 
 received the letter ! The suspense was madden 
 ing. 
 
 A frenzied desire to smash the window and 
 rush the guards without had seized him with 
 ever increasing frequency as the return of 
 
130 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Eliot drew near, and but for the certain result 
 such a dash for liberty would have had on 
 Hawkins he would have tried it. As it was, 
 he could only sit and think. New forms had 
 appeared at times about the table by the fire 
 place, and from these strangers he had over 
 heard enough to piece together fragments 
 here and there of the quiet undercurrent of 
 intrigue and plotting that formed the basis of 
 the warfare between the miners and the Com 
 pany. But it was mostly a recital of victories 
 for the latter; no one had seemed even slightly 
 concerned over the efforts of the miners, men 
 usually referred to as "gophers." 
 
 On this night, while Tarn and Brud 
 Hawkins were talking in the little cabin on the 
 mountain side, Buller, for the first time in days, 
 entered Pete s room and signified a desire to 
 say something. 
 
 "Slim Eliot s back," he smirked as soon as 
 he entered the room. But somehow he said it 
 badly, and Pete knew he was bluffing. 
 
 "Then I can go in the morning," he 
 answered, with well feigned pleasure. 
 
 "Huh, still thinking thataway, are ya? 
 Well, forget it, he ain t back. But he will be; 
 he s shakin up in the pass tonight, he ll be here 
 tomorrow." 
 
 "Then I ll be leaving tomorrow, just the 
 same," Pete returned confidently. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 131 
 
 Duller ignored the answer, and continued 
 his smirking words. 
 
 "You re packin around too much in yer 
 head, that s what I came in to tell ya, and tain t 
 healthy, that s what. I blowed in here fer to 
 buzz ya about knowin too much." 
 
 "Well, shoot," Pete still out-looked his 
 visitor. 
 
 "How long have ya been knowin the old 
 Gopher?" Bull threw a snaky finger and 
 glanced in the direction of the mountain side. 
 "How long have ya two been . . Well, 
 knock me for a ..." Buller stood as 
 though transfixed, as he looked out the window. 
 Pete followed his gaze and saw the signal light 
 completing a circle ! For a moment neither 
 spoke. Then with an expression of sudden 
 understanding, Buller s eyes rested on Pete s 
 lamp, standing directly in front of his window. 
 
 Instantly, as their eyes met, Pete s hands 
 sought the back of a chair and Buller s the guns 
 that hung by his side. But before a move could 
 be made, Alguin with a sudden jerk threw open 
 the door and stood apparently amazed at the 
 posture of the two threatening figures. Buller 
 wheeled on him. 
 
 "Now, Al, mebbe, you ll let me finish this 
 job. Look up yonder!" 
 
 The three men looked out of the window, 
 where the light was still circling. Pete knew 
 
132 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 it would continue until he answered back, and 
 he tried desperately to think of a ruse that 
 would permit his doing so. But Alguin, un 
 wittingly, or purposely, did it for him, when he 
 stepped between the light and the window. 
 Instantly the signaling on the hill stopped. 
 
 Buller jerked his head toward the door. 
 "C mon," he growled. 
 
 The two men, not once glancing at their 
 prisoner, shut the door and locked it behind 
 them and almost instantly thereafter the guards 
 outside began nailing huge boards across 
 the window. 
 
 Completely bewildered and helpless at the 
 turn of events, Pete slumped down on his bed 
 and waited. At length, hours afterward, it 
 seemed, faint streaks of light stole through the 
 narrow cracks of the window boards, telling 
 him that it was again morning. He had no 
 doubt that already men were on the way to 
 Hawkins, agents of death in all probability, 
 and that other men were on their way to 
 Moapa, sent there to bring the Sheriff and his 
 posse, also messengers of death, if Buller s 
 nefarious scheme worked out. 
 
 Horrible as it was, Pete could not but feel 
 a sense of relief. Something would happen 
 soon, at any rate, and anything was better than 
 sitting there day after day. Yet his heart fairly 
 quivered with suppressed emotion as he pic- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 133 
 
 tured Hawkins, friend of a day, nevertheless 
 a man he would now face armed guards to save 
 if he could! He thought of the girl, too, and 
 his brows knitted. He had come to see more 
 than the signal, when the light on the mountain 
 side whirled at midnight. These, too, were 
 gone now, he mused. 
 
 In spite of every effort, all of his plans 
 harked back to the playing cards, and his note 
 to Judge Stivers. He must make new plans 
 now ! Yet the thought no sooner entered his 
 mind than he dismissed it as hopeless. New 
 plans ! He looked at his hands and saw them, 
 still soft and whiter than ever. He stroked his 
 face, and he suddenly realized that he had a 
 beard, fully half an inch of it! His hair, too, 
 was long, and his scalp itched. The entire 
 scheme of things oppressed him. Even the 
 thought of his father failed to stir his senses 
 to action. Like a prisoner sentenced to death, 
 he sat there with his back to the boarded win 
 dow, and his eyes on the bolted door. For 
 hours no one stirred and he had no idea how 
 much of the day was gone. Yet, in spite of it 
 all, he felt ravenously hungry. Hour after 
 hour he sat there, unable to do more than look 
 at the door, until at last the meagre light that 
 played through the chink in the window dwin 
 dled to faint weak streaks. Then some one 
 fumbled at the door, and a figure, strange to 
 
134 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Pete, entered, left a dirty pan of greasy food, 
 a bowl of coffee, and left the room without a 
 word. 
 
 The food, such as it was, appeased his 
 hunger, and Pete ate ravenously. "They re 
 waiting for Eliot, that must be it," he told him 
 self aloud between gulps of coffee. For the 
 hundredth time since his imprisonment, he 
 studied the room for an avenue of escape. 
 Again his eyes sought the window, but it was 
 not made to open, and he feared the noise of 
 breaking glass. Then, too, the boards were 
 there now. Yet he might, he thought, by plac 
 ing his eye close to the crack between them, 
 watch for the signal once more. A forlorn 
 hope ! There would be no more signals, of that 
 he felt certain. Again his eyes wandered to 
 ward the knot hole above his head. An idea 
 struck him and he fumbled in his pocket for 
 the stub of pencil Susie had given him. He still 
 had the signal code in his pocket, and now he 
 wrote hurriedly on the back of it: 
 
 "Dear Hawkins and Susie: 
 
 "Somehow I know you e together. Don t bother 
 about me, I ll get along, a way will come. If I never 
 see you again always remember I am grateful for your 
 kindness, and sorry if I have been in any way the cause 
 of the terrible trouble we are all in. If you have a 
 chance, and if you know I am dead, tell my father, San 
 Francisco, that his boy was innocent of everything but 
 a desire to be a worthy son. Good-bye. 
 
 "Peter Alden, Jr." 
 
 Then he tucked the note carefully through 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 135 
 
 the hole, letting his fingers linger there awhile, 
 before once more resuming his tiresome chair, 
 where he sat and waited for the coming of the 
 Sheriff. It was dark in the room and his lamp 
 had not been removed, he noticed, but he feared 
 to light it lest the meagre supply of oil become 
 exhausted before night. In spite of him 
 self, he still hoped that the cover of darkness 
 would bring to him some word from the out 
 side. 
 
 The house was strangely still, yet he knew 
 he was not alone, for the partition between his 
 room and the one in which the fire burned felt 
 warm, and occasionally he heard logs being 
 thrown on the fire without. Still no one came 
 near him, and no one spoke, at least not loudly 
 enough for him to hear. 
 
 Little flashes of red light from the guards 
 fire began to replace the sombre slits of twilight 
 through the boards on the window, when at last 
 he heard voices, loud, unrestrained, from men 
 seemingly in a hurry. 
 
 Pete had played football in college, and 
 remembered well the feeling that gripped him 
 when the kick-off whistle blew. He had that 
 feeling now, as he listened to the voices. 
 
 "Sheriff s coming from Moapa tonight, 
 ell be here bout twelve, I guess," some one 
 was saying. The same voice continued: 
 
136 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "Eliot, you got to do a lot more hikin yet, 
 tonight." 
 
 Then another voice broke in as though 
 replying to Eliot, whose words Pete had not 
 heard. "No," it said, "to hell with the fifty 
 thousand dollars, knew that was bunk. But the 
 bird in here that give you the bum steer is worth 
 five thousand berries, and we re gettin in our 
 claims afore they string im." 
 
 Before the speaker finished, Pete recog 
 nized the voice; it was little Alguin talking. 
 
 "Hawkins bumped, then?" some one asked. 
 
 "Sure, he s bumped," Alguin grunted. 
 "Bull s been gone four hours already, ought to 
 be back now. Anytime Bull goes a bumpin 
 he s sure fire. You looked everywhere for the 
 fifty, Eliot, no signs anywhere?" 
 
 Someone stamped loudly on the door sill, 
 and Pete could not get the answer. The man 
 stamping was apparently a newcomer, and both 
 men within greeted him. 
 
 "Hello, Bull, come in," they called together. 
 
 Pete heard chairs dragged across the room, 
 but the voices were close together and were 
 much subdued. He tiptoed quietly toward the 
 door to listen. Half-way across the room he 
 was stopped short by the movement of some 
 thing dragging across the rough boards above 
 his head. With a rapid stride he made for the 
 lamp and struck a match. Even before the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 137 
 
 sudden light flared up his eyes sought the knot 
 hole. There a long folded envelope, held tightly 
 between white fingers, showed in relief against 
 the ceiling. While Pete hesitated a moment 
 between lighting the lamp and reaching for 
 the message, the match flickered and died in his 
 hand. Without lighting another, he made a 
 bound to the bed, and swept the ceiling with his 
 hand. With heart pounding like a trip hammer, 
 his arm circled about wildly for a moment that 
 seemed like an hour, before his hand closed 
 hungrily about the slender fingers. A second 
 might mean discovery, yet his hand lingered, 
 lingered while he sent his mute message of 
 heart-felt appreciation to the messenger. A 
 moment there, a heavy sigh, and the hands 
 parted. Pete hardly had the lamp burning 
 before the rustle above died away, and he 
 knew Tam was gone. 
 
 With frantic haste he examined the two 
 missives in his hand, a note and an envelope, 
 unopened. He opened the note first and read. 
 
 "They ve done away with him, I m going, too. In 
 haste. Tam." 
 
 With a pang of remorse that entirely shat 
 tered his growing enthusiasm he opened the 
 long letter and withdrew two pictures, and a 
 printed slip. Heavy black figures, 130-666, 
 first caught his eye; then the pictures, both 
 
138 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 of James Hogan, alias Buller Garret, so the 
 legend at the bottom ran. Turning again to 
 the printed slip he found it contained a list of 
 crimes, which he carefully studied before shov 
 ing the papers into his pocket. 
 
 Tears dimmed his eyes as he read and re 
 read the note, "I m going, too," what could 
 that mean? Pete s face went cold. "They ve 
 done away with him." He turned the wick in 
 the lamp higher, for the note seemed smeared. 
 He held it closer to the light. "They ve," he 
 commenced reading aloud; ah! she had first 
 written "not," then erased it. He looked more 
 closely. No ! She had not erased it entirely ! 
 A rush of sudden hope came over him. 
 "They ve not done away with him," he read. 
 If it were only true ! But she had erased the 
 word, and only the impression of the sharp 
 pencil was left. Yet, it might be true. 
 
 A noise of scraping chairs in the room out 
 side ended his speculation. Quickly he touched 
 the paper to the flame and rubbed the charred 
 remains into his boot tops. Men entered. A 
 triumphant leer dominated the face of the 
 leader, Buller Garret. 
 
 "Get ready, Mr. J-a-r, we re goin to meet 
 the Sheriff. No use hangin round here, hey 
 boys?" Even the dull wits of the gangsters 
 caught the play of words, and they laughed 
 roughly as Pete looked on, apparently at ease. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 139 
 
 "I m beginning to like it around here, 
 rather bad night to travel anyhow, isn t it?" 
 Pete answered, seeming more at ease than at 
 any time since his capture. 
 
 As he spoke he observed that the men back 
 of Buller became irritable. Pete s words had 
 plainly sat badly with them. 
 
 "Puttin on yer hat, or goin thataway?" 
 Buller snarled, then without waiting for a reply 
 continued, "guess it ud look better if ya didn t 
 wear a hat, at that." Buller then turned and 
 spoke to a companion: "Better let im wear 
 the evidence. Here, put er on. n The latter 
 was spoken to Pete, as Buller tossed a fur coat 
 to the floor before him. In the dingy light of 
 the room Pete made out Hawkins blood- 
 smeared coat, and winced at the sight. 
 
 "C mon, or we ll knock ya cold an drag 
 yer out. That ud look better yet. Whadda 
 you think?" Buller turned to the men and 
 even as he spoke one of them slinked out from 
 the doorway and edged his way past Pete. 
 
 "Oh, I ve been dragged before, isn t so 
 bad," Pete bantered, backing to the wall, as he 
 spoke. "Funny, everytime I get hit on the 
 head," looking straight at Buller, "I see num 
 bers, lots of em," Pete marked them off in the 
 air with his finger 1-3-0-6-6-6 "just like that," 
 he continued in a solemn voice, "big black 
 
 ones." 
 
140 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 If Pete had struck with his fist, he could 
 not have delivered a more stunning blow. 
 Buller wavered a moment, a hint of the hunted 
 animal coming over him. Then for an instant 
 he quavered, before he regained his air of 
 bravado. 
 
 "He s goin nuts, fellers, let s get goin or 
 the Sheriff ll beat us here." 
 
 "Better talk to me first, for a minute or 
 two, Jimmy Hogan, I mean Buller. Maybe I 
 can tip you on something that might happen." 
 
 Pete s words found their mark, and Buller, 
 his hands shaking visibly, motioned the men 
 about him to remain quiet. Nervously he 
 moistened his dry lips and only the dimness of 
 the light saved him from the puzzled stare of 
 the gangsters about him. "The the them 
 signals didn t look too good to me, fellers," he 
 stammered, "better let me buzz this bird alone, 
 fer jest a second; maybe he oughta be bumped 
 right here, now." So saying, he nodded his 
 head in the direction of the door, and stood 
 with shaking hand on the butt of his gun, while 
 the men walked slowly out. Then turning to 
 Pete, he tried once more to bluff it out. 
 
 "I m wise, what s the game?" 
 
 "You are convict number 130-666, Jimmy 
 Hogan, alias Jimmy Duffy, alias Buller Garret. 
 They want to hang you out Frisco way for the 
 murder of 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 141 
 
 "I said I was wise," Buller interrupted, 
 visibly weakening, "what s the game? Yer 
 the only livin soul in Moapa with the goods on 
 me. Think I ll let you buzz the Sheriff? Say 
 not. You been livin too long already." 
 
 "Don t get in a hurry, Jimmy, bumpin me 
 won t get you anywhere. You went thieving 
 through my pockets when you dragged me in 
 here, didn t you? Well, how did I get these? 
 They weren t in my pockets, then," Pete fin 
 ished his words by flashing the record from his 
 pocket. 
 
 "A dick, by God, you are a dick ! But you 
 ain t got me, not yet," Buller jabbered in sudden 
 fear, and with a wild movement reached for 
 his gun. But his quavering nerves and thor 
 oughly beaten spirit refused to obey his sudden 
 frenzy. With one lunge Pete had his arms 
 vice-like about the writhing body of the gang 
 ster. "One word, Jimmy Hogan, an you cash 
 in," he hissed as he fought silently for the gun. 
 Bull was beaten before the struggle began, 
 beaten by the inherent fear of the law that rests 
 in the heart of every criminal. His frail body 
 was no match for the powerful Pete, who bore 
 upon him like an avalanche. A moment, only, 
 and the silent struggle was over as Pete lifted 
 his man bodily through the air and sent him 
 smashing down on the bed. Throwing caution 
 to the wind he leaped upon him like a wild 
 
142 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 animal, gouging his fingers deep into the flabby 
 throat beneath him. For a moment he shook 
 him with the frenzy of a madman, then sat him 
 down with a bang into a chair. 
 
 Alarmed at the noise, several of the men 
 rushed in from the door step leading out of the 
 house, and opened the door of Pete s room. 
 
 "Tell em to wait, you dog, or this thing 
 talks!" Pete stood, back to the door, menacing 
 Duller with his own gun. "Quick, tell em!" 
 
 Duller gasped for breath. 
 
 "Stay out a minute," he called, and rose 
 weakly to his feet to do with a wave of the arm 
 what his words could not convey. 
 
 In the semi-darkness of the room the gang 
 sters saw nothing wrong and one of them 
 shouted : 
 
 "The Sheriff s most here, if you ain t comin , 
 we re goin ." Then they resumed their stand 
 on the steps of the cabin. 
 
 "Now I m talking," Pete began, as he again 
 stood over Dull, "and you listen. I m not 
 working alone in this game. We could have 
 had you long ago, but we re not after you. 
 Touch one hair of my head, though, you or any 
 body, and you re going up, don t forget that. 
 We re watching you. Leave me alone and 
 behave yourself, and we won t bother you. 
 Now call those men in, tell em you re all 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 143 
 
 wrong, I m somebody else, Philip West will do. 
 Hurry up." 
 
 Buller knew that a reply was useless, and 
 said not a word. Walking slowly to the door, 
 he called in the men from the snow-covered 
 steps. 
 
 "This bird ain t Peter Alden," he an 
 nounced in a thin shaky voice. "We re all 
 wrong, Peter Alden got away, somehow. This 
 is Philip West." Before the astonished and 
 bewildered gangsters could reply, three men 
 emerged from the darkness and came rapidly 
 toward the group, which still stood half in and 
 half out of the house. On hearing the three 
 men approach, Pete joined the group. 
 
 "Well," one of the newcomers announced, 
 "I m Olcott, the Sheriff. Where s this Alden ?" 
 
 "Hell, you re hours late, he bumped 
 Hawkins and flew the coop. Gone," Buller 
 answered. 
 
 "Which w r ay did he go, where s his tracks?" 
 Olcott snapped. 
 
 For a moment the gangsters were taken by 
 surprise, as the sharp eyes of the Sheriff 
 searched their faces. 
 
 "Think he made it out the back way," 
 Pete volunteered, motioning toward the rear of 
 the house. 
 
 "Let s see," the Sheriff answered testily, as 
 
144 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 he produced a flashlight from his pocket, and 
 led the way to the rear of the string of houses. 
 
 u Here s his trail, right enough," he finally 
 called out to his two companions. Damn small 
 feet though. Funny." He hesitated a moment 
 and fumbled in his pocket for a folded bit of 
 paper, which Pete recognized as the handbill 
 showing his very picture. "That s it, he s still 
 wearing his city shoes. Come on, men, let s 
 after him. But wait a minute. Where s 
 Hawkins, Buller? You say he s done for?" 
 
 "Taking him to Moapa, Tamarack Sue s 
 snakin him in on a sled, ought re be there by 
 
 now." 
 
 Apparently satisfied, the Sheriff and his 
 party went on, to follow, as Pete knew, the trail 
 left by Tarn. 
 
 As soon as the posse was lost in the dark 
 ness Pete pulled Buller aside, and spoke close 
 to his ear. "Where s Hawkins?" 
 
 "S elp me, God, I m tellin the truth, 
 Tamarack Sue s snakin him in, I saw her." 
 
 "Who bumped him?" 
 
 "Slim Eliot." 
 
 "Where s Slim Eliot?" 
 
 "Gone, don t know." 
 
 Pete knew that Buller was telling the truth. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 OETE arose on the morning following his 
 deliverance from the Sheriff, with a feeling 
 akin to buoyancy. He was free, at least from 
 immediate restraint, although the energy with 
 which the Sheriff pursued the trail at the rear 
 of the house indicated the seriousness of his 
 position, so far as the world at large was con 
 cerned. Several very definite circumstances 
 aside from his personal freedom added to the 
 revival of his spirits. Judge Stivers had re 
 ceived his note. The fact that no message came 
 with the letter he received unopened from Susie 
 worried him a little ; but nevertheless, the Judge, 
 and surely his father, had his declaration of 
 innocence, and would take appropriate action 
 regarding the criminal charge against him. 
 Then, too, Hawkins might not be dead; he 
 could not but feel that the guiding hand of Tam 
 had averted such a tragedy. Yet, her note had 
 been woefully short, as though she had lost 
 interest in everything save the delivery of the 
 letter. This, although addressed to her, had 
 been unopened; another strange matter. But 
 the eternal spirit of hope, the feeling that all 
 is well in the absence of positive proof to the 
 contrary, comforted Pete as he leisurely set 
 
146 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 about exploring the various rooms of the con 
 nected cabin-like houses, out of one of which 
 he had been so recently delivered. 
 
 Buller and little Phil Alguin alone remained 
 of the nest of gangsters who had occupied the 
 premises for the past week. Buller was badly 
 broken. Ever since Susie had come into his 
 life he had brooded over the chances of his 
 being brought to justice for crimes committed 
 long before he entered the service of J. D. 
 Browning, and but for the firm belief that 
 Peter was actually with others, who would im 
 mediately avenge his death, Buller would 
 never have allowed him to step out of the 
 rooms alive. As it was, he was wholly at his ex- 
 prisoner s mercy, and made little attempt to 
 conceal the fact. "Little Phil," for reasons best 
 known to Buller, followed the latter s instruc 
 tions, and seemed more than willing to make 
 what amends were possible while Peter was 
 still with them. 
 
 Following breakfast, Pete set about 
 reassembling his pack, remains of which were 
 scattered broadcast about the corner of the 
 room where first he dumped them in his mad 
 rush for the first-aid kit. He found it necessary 
 now to demand several articles of absolute 
 necessity from Buller and Little Phil before he 
 could safely consider the pack complete. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 147 
 
 u Mind wisin us where yer goin ?" Buller 
 asked submissively, yet with a touch of feeling 
 as he observed Pete s evident intention of leav 
 ing. 
 
 "Don t know myself, exactly," Pete con 
 fessed. 
 
 "Can t be figgerin on hittin the cushions er 
 goin back to the lights, with a pack," Alguin 
 observed, pointing to Pete s preparations for 
 the trail. 
 
 "Well, I started out to work in Hawkins 
 mine, the Dead Horse. Might as well go 
 through with it, I guess. How far is it from 
 here and how does one get there?" 
 
 Peter thought he detected a return of the 
 crafty look in Buller s eye, as the latter 
 answered. 
 
 "All hell couldn t get you by the pass, lest 
 you carry an O. K. from J. D." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Dunno, jest orders, that s all. You ll find 
 all the boys layin up at the pass that was 
 warmin the fire here last week; they ain t 
 feelin any too good about the fifty thousand 
 berries they think yer holdin out on em, 
 either." 
 
 "Um, hum," Pete reflected and stood think 
 ing quietly for a moment. "That being the 
 case, guess I ll go back to Moapa, and finish my 
 job in these parts, right off." 
 
148 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 At these words a slight frown came over 
 Alguin s face, and he attempted to pass a signal 
 to Bull, but Pete intercepted it. 
 
 "Might as well tell me about it, boys. Don t 
 start holding out, already." 
 
 "Well," Alguin confessed, "I ain t crazy 
 to have you layin around Moapa, I don t mind 
 sayin Id rather you wuz as far up in the moun 
 tains as God-a-might ll let you go." 
 
 "Me, too," Buller added. 
 
 "Well, seems to me that s up to you fel 
 lows," Pete replied. "I m for going, right off. 
 Get me by the pass and that s all I want." 
 
 Buller and Alguin accepted the words si 
 lently and indicated a desire to hold a consulta 
 tion. Pete obligingly gave them an opportu 
 nity. At length they called to him. "Phil, 
 here," Buller started, "is thinkin it wouldn t be 
 safe. Mountains get hard this time a year, you 
 mightn t get through. Then how about us, 
 see?" 
 
 The question hinted of a clumsy trick. 
 
 "That s the chance you re taking," Pete 
 answered, calmly. "Maybe I won t get through, 
 and if I don t, then the lid s off. and you fel 
 lows are in for it. Maybe I will get through, 
 then things stand as they are." 
 
 "Yeh," Alguin persisted. "Figgerin we 
 get you by the pass, how s anybody goin to 
 know what s happened to you?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 149 
 
 "Don t worry about that, just you two keep 
 your fingers out of what happens to me, and 
 things will be fine. Only just don t start 
 anything." 
 
 "I say, let s get him by. He s better up 
 there than hanging around Moapa," Alguin 
 urged, evidently convinced that Pete held the 
 whip hand. 
 
 The discussion, more a matching of wits 
 than an attempt to establish a program, at 
 length resulted in an agreement, on the part 
 of Buller and Alguin, to pass Pete by the bar 
 rier of the Salmon Tooth guards, and to start 
 him out as best they could toward the Dead 
 Horse Mine. 
 
 It was nearly noon when the trio emerged 
 from the building that had held Pete prisoner 
 for so many weary days. At first, the pure 
 joy of walking, the feel of frosty air and the 
 close proximity of towering snow-covered 
 mountains thrilled him. The two submissive 
 gangsters, who walked in single file before him 
 were apparently, he observed, as unused to 
 travel as he himself, as their pace was slow 
 and laborious, a circumstance for which he was 
 duly grateful, for of the three, he alone carried 
 a pack. 
 
 It was expected that Salmon Tooth Pass 
 would be reached by sundown, and that the 
 
150 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 buildings there would afford shelter for the 
 night. 
 
 As the journey progressed, however, the 
 thrill of freedom and new scenery gave way 
 to an irritating sense of ever-increasing incon 
 venience. The boots, although a week and 
 more old, were nevertheless new and unbroken. 
 They rubbed his heels mercilessly and seemed 
 to grow heavier with every step. Perspiration 
 soon began to trickle in little rivulets beneath 
 his heavy woolen underwear, affording an ex 
 cellent opportunity for chills when the party 
 halted for short rests along the trail. 
 
 The pass proved to be actually nearer than 
 Pete had surmised, and fully an hour before the 
 sun dipped behind the first rugged crags of dis 
 tant peaks, he beheld the narrow opening in 
 the sheer walls of jagged rocks before him. 
 Even before he could discern the outline of 
 snow-covered houses, that he knew stood at the 
 entrance to the pass, his ears were assailed by 
 the loud roaring of rushing water; a roaring 
 magnified many times in the amphitheatre 
 formed by the sheer mountain walls. 
 
 A half hour later, as the trio approached 
 the first of two buildings that stood in the very 
 center of the pass, Buller advanced and spoke 
 to several men who emerged from the first 
 cabin. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 151 
 
 Apparently satisfied with what they heard, 
 one of the men beckoned to Pete and Alguin 
 to come up. 
 
 Buller stood to one side and pointed to 
 Pete, who came up first. 
 
 "This is him, Philip West, friend of mine." 
 Peter was a poor actor and important as the 
 introduction was, his face could not hide his 
 distaste at the expression of "friend," the 
 gangster used. The introduction stopped there, 
 and it was necessary for the man from the 
 cabin to continue it. 
 
 "I m Jenkins, pass foreman," he stated 
 simply, as he extended his hand. Pete grasped 
 it willingly enough, and swiftly appraised his 
 new acquaintance. The man was distinctly 
 unusual, to say the least, and Pete could not 
 be sure that he was making an advantageous 
 trade, in exchanging his late captors for this 
 guardian of Salmon Tooth Pass. 
 
 Almost immediately after the meeting, 
 comfortable quarters were provided in Jenkins 
 own cabin, where Pete made himself as much 
 at home as possible, considering his newness 
 to camp life generally. 
 
 The evening meal proved the best he had 
 eaten in weeks. Broiled mountain trout, served 
 with delicious rashers of crisp brown bacon, 
 on a hot platter garnished with watercress; 
 stacks of fluffy biscuits ranged alongside of a 
 
152 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 huge can of syrup ; baked potatoes, and a com 
 bination of corn, beans and peas, blended to 
 gether with creamy sauce in a way new even to 
 Pete s highly educated palate, brought enthu 
 siastic comment that came straight from his 
 heart. 
 
 "Mr. Jenkins, you are certainly to be con 
 gratulated on the excellent table you have, away 
 up here," he remarked as he helped himself 
 to biscuits for the third time. 
 
 Til admit it," replied Jenkins, "and fur 
 thermore, I ll say we ve got it coming. See old 
 Charley, there?" waving a fork at a rotund 
 Chinaman of uncertain years, who seemed to 
 be glued to a huge wooden bowl in the kitchen. 
 "Had a harder fight getting him than old J. D. 
 had building the bridge up yonder." Jen 
 kins indicated a sturdy span of steel girders 
 that seemed suspended in the air, high above 
 the roaring waters of the stream. 
 
 "How interesting! You must tell me about 
 it," Pete replied, taking advantage of his ex 
 pressed interest to gather another crisp trout 
 from the platter before him. "How did it 
 happen? I d say he s worth more than the 
 bridge." 
 
 "Well, it s a long story. He used to be 
 long up in Hawkins camp, Dead Horse 
 workings. They all hated us like poison up 
 there, when they found out we wanted him. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 153 
 
 They made him believe we were running a 
 bogey house of some sort or other down here. 
 I heard about him through some of the boys. 
 They told me how he was the best blamed 
 cook the Saw Tooth Mountains ever had, and 
 I decided I wanted him. Money couldn t buy 
 him. They had him buffaloed for a while, but 
 I got it into my head I wanted that Chink, and 
 I got him." 
 
 "But how did you do it?" Pete was genuine 
 ly interested, for the story involved the Dead 
 Horse Mine, an excellent subject to dwell upon 
 later. 
 
 "Ha, ha, now you re asking for informa 
 tion. Everyone who eats here, even J. D. him 
 self, has asked me that question. Only Charley 
 and I know the answer though, and old Charley 
 doesn t understand English, do you, Charley?" 
 The old Chinaman had left his bowl to bring 
 in another plate of biscuits. 
 
 "No, no, me no talkee ingelish, only meli- 
 can, Mr. Jenklins, only talkee melican." 
 
 "The Dead Horse people must have felt 
 quite badly about it," Pete continued, reluctant 
 to drop the subject. "Suppose they have an 
 other one by this time, though " 
 
 "Only three of em left up there now. One 
 of them s sick, I hear, that ll leave only two 
 working until you get there. Buller tells me 
 you re going up to join them?" As Jenkins 
 
154 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 talked, Pete thought he saw a hint of covert 
 understanding in his eye. 
 
 "Yes, I figure on spending the winter up 
 there. But tell me about the cook, have they 
 another one?" 
 
 "Guess not, every man for himself. Beats 
 me how they do it. I get into Moapa once 
 in awhile, anyway, but God knows it s bad 
 enough to stick here all winter, even at that." 
 
 "Oh, guess I ll come down, occasionally, I 
 like the hills all right enough, what little I ve 
 seen of them. But all winter ! Whew ! Guess 
 I ll come down and go to Moapa with you; 
 how often do you say you go in?" 
 
 "Sometimes once a month, sometimes often- 
 er, but say, if you re figurin on coming back 
 this winter, you hadn t better start at all." 
 
 "Why, trail so bad as all that?" 
 
 "No, trail s bad of course, but that part is 
 O. K. Our orders are none of the help from 
 further up than Jumbo Point can come out till 
 Spring." Jenkins seemed a little perturbed at 
 Pete s apparent ignorance of orders. For a 
 moment he looked carefully from Buller to Lit 
 tle Phil, who had thus far sat silently by, too 
 much interested with the food, evidently, to 
 talk. 
 
 Buller was quick to follow the drift of the 
 conversation, however, and stepped into the 
 breach now quite cleverly. "West s wise all 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 155 
 
 right," he broke in, "but he s not quite on to 
 just who s who round this end of the workin s." 
 His foot sought out Pete s beneath the table 
 and kicked it sharply. 
 
 "How about the sick bloke, he comin 
 here?" Alguin asked, following Buller s lead. 
 
 "They re on the trail with him now, I think, 
 nothin much the matter with him, I guess, just 
 stallin to get into town." 
 
 Pete changed the subject, and thereafter 
 the conversation stayed in channels that inter 
 ested him, but gave him little information. 
 
 In spite of his hard afternoon trip, and the 
 thought that he could remove his clothes for 
 the first time in over a week and rest in peace, 
 Pete accepted an invitation to sit in at poker, a 
 pastime that seemed to be innocent enough, as 
 he recalled his total lack of money. Jenkins 
 was equal to the occasion, however, and sug 
 gested a small loan, explaining that while J. D. 
 hadn t confirmed Bull s statement, he, West, 
 would probably be on the payroll before long. 
 
 Buller, hearing the remark, squirmed un 
 easily as he contemplated his next visit to J. D. 
 and the time he would have "fixing" Pete s 
 standing there. He comforted himself with 
 the thought that something was due him on 
 the Hawkins deal, at any rate, and took his seat 
 at the game in a much better mood than he had 
 been in for several days. Perhaps the thought 
 
156 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 of Tamarack Sue, and the last words he had 
 with her preceding his turning the bumping of 
 Hawkins over to Slim Eliot, had much to do 
 with it. At any rate, as he sat up to the table 
 now he seemed to be more in the mood in which 
 Pete had first seen him at the Gold Nugget, 
 than he had been at any time since then. 
 
 Pete s early deduction of Jenkins character 
 seemed confirmed as he watched him hand out 
 poker chips and square away for the game. 
 
 The company was fast, and Pete enjoyed 
 a good game of poker. Alguin and Duller 
 played together, not obviously, but with the 
 cunningness that characterized everything they 
 did. Jenkins apparently knew them, and played 
 accordingly. But as the game wore on, Pete 
 became more and more aware of the deep 
 seated mania for winning that seemed to pos 
 sess Jenkins. Time after time, as luck favored 
 Pete, Jenkins reached for whiskey, pulled his 
 hat further down over his eyes, and studied the 
 game in deadly earnest. A rivalry that might 
 have taken months to crop out ordinarily, de 
 veloped between the two men before the game 
 was three hours old. Pete always played his 
 cards, resorting to bluff only occasionally. The 
 pace became hot, and Buller soon demanded a 
 show down, and lost. Then Little Phil, never 
 a good player in a gentleman s game, shoved 
 his last stack to the center of the table and quit. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 157 
 
 It was Jenkins deal, and even though the 
 hour was late, Buller and Alguin kept their 
 seats and watched the rivals fight it out. 
 
 Pete took his hand, glanced at it a second, 
 and called for four cards. 
 
 Jenkins stood pat, shoving in a half of his 
 stack. 
 
 It was Pete s bet. "Raise you fifty," he said 
 evenly. It was the largest bet of the even 
 ing and Jenkins hesitated a moment, looked 
 Pete in the face and snapped back, "And I ll 
 raise you fifty, that s how I feel about it." 
 
 "That goes here, show down," Pete an 
 swered calmly, shoving his entire stack to the 
 center. Jenkins answered by shoving in his 
 pile, but the veins in his hands and neck seemed 
 to swell out with pent-up emotion, as he did so. 
 
 Pete calmly laid down four aces. 
 
 A new look came over Jenkins face as he 
 displayed three kings, rising the while from 
 his chair. 
 
 Pete did likewise, and not a word was 
 spoken. Pete stood full length directly beside 
 the table, and commenced to yawn. But the 
 yawn didn t seem to come natural. He would 
 gladly have given back all of the winnings, he 
 began to think, rather than make an enemy of 
 his host. For a moment Jenkins stood stock 
 still, his eyes running up and down the figure 
 before him. Then suddenly he came directly 
 
158 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 up to Pete, and with a sneer on his face bent 
 over and dug his fingers into Pete s boot tops. 
 
 For a moment, Pete s heart seemed to stop 
 beating, as he recalled with a start that he had 
 not taken from their original hiding place, the 
 cards he took from Buller over a week ago. 
 
 Even before Jenkins hand could reach the 
 card, Pete saw with his first glance the tell-tale 
 tip protruding above the boot top. 
 
 The tension rose quickly to the snapping 
 point; still Pete could utter not a word. 
 
 "I guess I ve got your number." Jenkins 
 shot the words through his teeth with all the 
 disgust of a man cheated in his own house. 
 
 "I haven t used those cards tonight, forgot 
 they were there," Pete answered evenly. "I 
 can explain, Mr. Jenkins." 
 
 "Not to me. Good night, Mr. West." 
 Pete noted the undue emphasis on the "West." 
 "Buller will show you where the gang sleeps in 
 the shack outside. Guess I don t want you in 
 here, tonight." Then, turning to Buller, he di 
 rected him to escort Pete and his pack to the 
 bunk house, adding, "Come back, you and Al- 
 guin, when you are through, I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 Whereupon Pete gathered up his pack, and 
 silently left the room. 
 
 If there was one thing on earth Peter de 
 spised above another, it was a cheater, and to be 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 159 
 
 denounced as such, even by so questionable a 
 character as he knew Jenkins to be, cut him to 
 the quick. But if this hurt him, the fact that 
 Jenkins refused even to allow him to make an 
 explanation was worse. Still he knew he could 
 not explain, flanked as he was by Buller and 
 Alguin. Yet the whole affair maddened him. 
 No sooner was he outside the door than 
 he grasped Buller firmly by the arm and spoke 
 close to his ear. "When you re talking to him, 
 don t forget, 1-3-0-6-6-6. Stall around out here 
 awhile before you go back, both of you. I m 
 not going to the shack." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 /CHAFING beneath the sting of humilia- 
 ^^ tion and anger as a result of the dramatic 
 climax of the poker game, Pete stumbled for 
 ward and made his way to the trail that seemed 
 to lead into the black gorge ahead of him. As 
 soon as he had cleared the pool of light that 
 streamed from Jenkins window, he stopped 
 short and listened. He heard the door open 
 saw Buller enter and heard the door close. 
 Yet for fully five minutes longer he waited and 
 listened. Then, as no sound greeted his ears, 
 he concluded that Buller was evidently doing 
 his work well, and he started once more on 
 his journey. 
 
 At first he stumbled badly knocking often 
 into sharp edges of boulders half covered 
 with snow sometimes tripping completely and 
 sprawling at full length along the trail. But 
 as he fought his way along, his eyes became 
 accustomed to the night. Fortunately, too, the 
 moon was out and occasionally managed to 
 evade mountain crags and towering mountain 
 cedars long enough to illuminate the trail for 
 brief moments. 
 
 For over two hours Pete struggled along, 
 devoting all of his fast depleting energy to stay- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 161 
 
 ing on the trail. In spite of the roaring waters, 
 several times he halted abruptly and could have 
 sworn he was followed. Not that any distinct 
 noise sounded above the roar of the stream be 
 side him, but rather because of a sudden pre 
 monition that possessed him. Twice he turned 
 sharply in his tracks and faced the trail behind 
 him. On both occasions he saw moving shad 
 ows, but his better judgment told him there were 
 shadows everywhere, on account of the uncer 
 tain light of the moon and he so assured him 
 self, rather loudly. Strangely enough, his 
 voice and even his reason lacked conviction. 
 His gloved hand sought the holster of his 
 gun a weapon not unknown to him, although 
 one he had long neglected. Nervously he took 
 it from its holster now and sighted at objects 
 along the trail. He found his gloved fingers 
 were exceedingly awkward about the trigger 
 and decided to carry the gun in his hand. As 
 he approached a narrow defile, flanked on one 
 side by roaring ice-burdened waters, and by 
 sheer walls on the other, leaving barely pas 
 sage space for the trail, a sudden idea struck 
 him. He increased his speed, and hurried over 
 the narrow shelf. Almost immediately the de 
 file widened out into its natural size just 
 as Pete had hoped. Selecting the projecting 
 point of a large boulder for a seat, he quickly 
 jumped from the trail, and watched the nar- 
 
162 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 row pass behind. For fully five minutes he 
 waited and watched. His feet were begin 
 ning to freeze from lack of exercise and a chill 
 worse than any of the afternoon s, attacked 
 him. Yet no one had appeared on the trail, 
 and not a sound could be heard above the roar 
 ing of the waters. Somewhat relieved he pre 
 pared to continue the journey, when two creep 
 ing forms, at first resembling weird shadows 
 in the moonlight, rounded the point of rock. 
 Pete sprang to his feet, gun in hand, and with 
 what voice he could summon shouted, "Stand 
 up who s there?" 
 
 For answer the shadows assumed the forms 
 of two great black cats that stood, seemingly 
 astonished, directly on the path before him. 
 Shaking with fright Pete pulled at the trigger of 
 his gun. Twice he shot the noise sounding 
 woefully weak and ineffective against the roar 
 of the waters. What effect the shots had he 
 could not determine. The forms before him 
 disappeared, however, and although he waited 
 several minutes for their return, they had 
 vanished. Once more on the trail, though, 
 their presence was harshly impressed upon him. 
 Weird screams, first beyond the stream on the 
 right, and then as though answering from the 
 jagged walls on the left, sounded even above 
 the roaring waters. 
 
 Pete was completely unnerved by the ex- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 163 
 
 perience, although he had no positive fear of at 
 tack. There was something uncanny about the 
 journey that worked on his nerves and seemed 
 to exact as much from his strength as the hard 
 physical going along the snow covered trail 
 itself. 
 
 He had no idea of the time of night, but 
 he knew by the progress of the moon that he 
 must have been traveling for at least four 
 hours. He tried to guess how far it might be 
 to the Dead Horse Mine, and realized, after 
 all, how little he knew, even of where he was 
 going. 
 
 The gorge gradually widened as he pro 
 gressed into it, the trail becoming fairly broad, 
 and well-defined. Occasionally, he passed what 
 seemed to be intersecting trails, and he expe 
 rienced some curiosity as to where they led. 
 As the gulch widened he noticed the stream 
 seemed to flow more evenly, and knew before 
 long he must be passing over the stretch of 
 placer ground of which he had heard so much. 
 
 This, then, was the ground for which men 
 had risked their lives wrangled, fought and 
 died! "The yellow curse," he had heard it 
 called by those who lost. "A game fit only 
 for men," he had heard the winners boast. In 
 spite of his weariness and at times it seemed 
 to overwhelm him his thought dwelt long 
 on the significance of the frozen gravel 
 
164 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 beneath him. His pulse quickened as he 
 recalled the history of strong men gold 
 mad who here fought out between them the 
 right of possession. Then a wave of resent 
 ment, a flash of deep rooted hatred raced 
 through his brain as he thought of the present 
 miners winners of the old days being ruth 
 lessly cheated and beaten by the very law they 
 themselves had created to end injustice and 
 outlawry. His vision swept beyond the im 
 mediate score or so of men affected by the new 
 warfare, and he pictured in his mind the in 
 nocent thousands scattered over all the coun 
 try who would sink money, some of them 
 their all, in the hope of gaining riches from 
 this same ground. Only this time they pinned 
 their hopes on the magic of the Salmon River 
 Gold Co., Inc. 
 
 His reverie, however, was brought to a rude 
 and sudden conclusion by the piercing wail of 
 a panther, this time in front of him. He had 
 been listening to them for hours, but now in 
 the comparative quiet of the night with the 
 roar of the stream lost in the gorge far below 
 him the blood-curdling shriek, like a woman 
 screaming in agony, sent an involuntary shud 
 der through him. No sooner had the echoes 
 of the first long cry faded out than a louder, 
 and closer one, answered from the trail behind. 
 
 Pete, shivering and cold, continued his 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 165 
 
 plodding gait, feeling lonely as he had never 
 felt before, yet conscious of the opportunity 
 to use his gun afforded by the broadening 
 expanse of moonlit ground about him. Three 
 times the panthers screamed, and with the last 
 rending peal, Pete became suddenly aware of 
 a light showing through the window of a small 
 shack directly in front of him. Except for the 
 light, he would have passed the place as a huge 
 misplaced boulder covered with snow. 
 
 He hesitated a moment and waited for 
 some sign of activity to follow the appearance 
 of the light. At last convinced that there would 
 be none, he urged his weary body on as briskly 
 as possible and boldly approached the low door 
 of the shack, on which he knocked loudly 
 calling out at the same time if anyone were in. 
 
 Almost instantly the door opened, and Pete 
 found himself confronted by a weazened old 
 woman, apparently an Indian, who held a lamp 
 high in one hand, while she used the other to 
 shade her sunken eyes. 
 
 At first Pete s shaggy fur-covered frame, 
 coming so suddenly out of the darkness of mid 
 night seemed to frighten the little old woman. 
 The lamp visibly shook in her hands. 
 
 "Please don t be frightened I m only a 
 miner, making the trail at the wrong time." 
 Pete apologized, retreating a step or two in 
 
166 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 the hope that such a manoeuvre would help 
 calm the shaking figure in the doorway. 
 
 "Miner walk up Gulch night time 
 bad." 
 
 It seemed to Pete he could hear the parch 
 ment like skin on the old woman s neck creak 
 as she shook her head slowly from one side to 
 the other. 
 
 "The Banshee wail. Come in it is the 
 spirit! Ugh. In miner." For some reason 
 this strange woman of the mountains seemed 
 more afraid of the panther cries than she did 
 of the stranger. As she spoke she lowered 
 her hand from her eyes and made to shut the 
 door. 
 
 Pete, seeing her anxiety to shut out as much 
 of the terrifying cry as possible, hurried through 
 the door, and stood, pack still on his back, in 
 the center of the room. The old woman re 
 placed the lamp on the wide sill of the square 
 window. As she did so, Pete observed the 
 room. In the center stood a low table, scarcely 
 large enough to accommodate more than three 
 people comfortably. He noted the absence of 
 a cloth, but observed the near-whiteness of the 
 boards from much scrubbing. In the center of 
 the table a large pot, evidently containing rem 
 nants of the evening meal, still remained, sur 
 rounded by numerous dishes and cans. The 
 room was permeated with a peculiarly fragrant 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 167 
 
 odor emanating from numerous bundles of 
 dried herbs, spices and grass that hung sus 
 pended from rafters above, or from long 
 wooden pegs in the ceiling. The fireplace 
 added a peculiar touch to the room; it seemed 
 to form a separate compartment by itself, oc 
 cupying as it did fully two-thirds of one side 
 of the room, and extending several feet back. 
 A smouldering fire burned there, but it had the 
 appearance of one left from early evening, 
 rather than one intended for the late hours of 
 the night. 
 
 With a sigh of relief, Pete unslung the 
 heavy pack and sank wearily into one of 
 three willow back chairs that stood before the 
 fire. For a moment he sat there, his head rest 
 ing between his hands, a picture of complete 
 exhaustion. 
 
 The old woman made a few shuffles about 
 the room before finally settling herself into one 
 of the remaining chairs. She seemed wholly 
 unconcerned at the presence of her visitor, and 
 Pete actually believed she would forget him 
 entirely and drop off to sleep, but for the ever- 
 recurring cries of the two animals without. As 
 the weird echoes of each cry would die down 
 she would sway back and forth in her chair 
 and mutter: 
 
 "There s goin to be killin there s goin 
 
168 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 to be killin it s the she Banshee s wail. The 
 spirit warnin there s goin to be killin !" 
 
 "Is that what their screaming means?" 
 Pete asked sleepily between his hands. 
 
 "It s the spirit tellin of a killin that s 
 comin old Hatty knows. She s heard em 
 since long before miners like you come into the 
 hills they always tell Hatty." 
 
 "Hatty." The name suggested something 
 to Pete s drowsy brain. "Hatty." A picture 
 of the prison house and of men talking came 
 to him. It was someone talking to Buller 
 Garret who had used the name. They had been 
 talking about Slim Eliot and the unsuccessful 
 trip to Jumbo Point. "Hatty would have seen 
 Hawkins." He recalled the exact words, as 
 he looked toward the old woman again. 
 "You re a friend of Slim Eliot aren t you?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Old Hatty friend of all men friend of 
 many, many men no more in mountains. When 
 she Banshee cries another friend of Hatty 
 leaves mountains. Maybe Slim Eliot who 
 knows? Only Banshee spirit maybe strange 
 miner new in hills who knows? She Banshee 
 calls someone must answer." 
 
 Pete, exhausted as he was, found the effort 
 of talking too much for his drowsy brain and 
 settled back in the comfortable chair and slept, 
 leaving old Hatty swaying back and forth, mut- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 169 
 
 tering aloud with every cry from the panthers 
 that now seemed to be making their way slowly 
 up the gorge. 
 
 It seemed to Pete he had hardly closed his 
 eyes before the rattle of dishes by his side 
 aroused him. Only his eyelids moved without 
 pain, and even they seemed hot and swollen. 
 His neck seemed entirely out of joint when he 
 tried to turn his head to find the occasion for 
 the rattling of dishes. With an effort he 
 straightened up in his chair involuntarily ut 
 tering grunts of pain as he shifted the position 
 of his limbs. At length he was able to come 
 to his feet and look about him. It was al 
 ready daylight outside. He must have traveled 
 far into the night, he reasoned, probably 
 spurred on to more than ordinary effort by the 
 cursed panthers that seemed now to be but 
 part of a grotesque nightmare of the night 
 before. 
 
 The pot which Pete had observed on the 
 table when he entered, now hung suspended 
 from an iron hook over the red coals of the 
 fire. The aroma of boiling coffee blended 
 peculiarly with the spicy fragrance of the room, 
 and had the effect of giving to Pete s contempla 
 tion of the morning meal a very satisfying sen 
 sation. 
 
 Hatty continued to consider the presence of 
 the stringer in her shack as quite an ordinary 
 
170 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 occurrence and evidenced no desire even to 
 glance in his direction, let alone to engage him 
 in conversation. 
 
 Observing her apparent lack of interest, 
 Pete sauntered out of the door, and prepared 
 to bathe his face in snow, considering it more 
 effective in stimulating his bearded skin than 
 water would be, even if he bothered to request 
 some of the old Indian woman. 
 
 The sight that greeted him as he walked 
 into the open left nothing by way of stimulation 
 for the expected rub of snow. There before 
 him stretched an expanse of mountain scenery 
 that seemed to separate him entirely from his 
 aching limbs and drowsy head as though by the 
 touch of a magic wand. Champagne of the 
 rarest vintage was never more pleasing to his 
 taste than the fresh mountain air now felt to 
 his nostrils and lungs. Even his aching muscles 
 seemed to become promises of new strength, 
 rather than reminders of his late journey as 
 he gazed on the inspiring scene. 
 
 He had come out prepared to look upon a 
 tortuous trail that had punished him so re 
 lentlessly the night before. Instead he thrilled 
 with pride as he looked down upon the winding 
 gulch through which he had battled his way. 
 
 The deep swish of gurgling waters alone 
 broke the charm of the morning stillness. The 
 stream, as though shrinking with fear from the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 171 
 
 broad white expanse about it tunneled its way 
 beneath a covering of ice and snow, and only 
 at one place did it show itself. In this lone 
 spot the waters seemed black and cruel, and 
 as he watched them sweep beneath their white 
 covering, his mind pictured the insidious work 
 of the promoters, also carrying on their work 
 of black deception beneath the white veneer of 
 law and glittering paper. He thought of 
 Hawkins benevolent old sage of the moun 
 tains, struggling against hopeless odds to retain 
 his heritage in the hills, even now, in all proba 
 bility, lying in an untimely grave. From 
 Hawkins his mind shifted to the form of his 
 dream girl she who had administered to his 
 fevered brow when his overtaxed nerves and 
 body sagged limply by the bedside in the prison 
 house. And then another picture, this time of 
 the same dream girl whose laughing blue 
 eyes were sad and still; whose face, once lovely 
 in its youth, was drawn with lines of worry and 
 care. Hands tender and warm, fit only for acts 
 of mercy and love, in the new mental picture, 
 seemed cold, white and thin. He saw it all as 
 he stood there gazing into the swirling black 
 waters of the stream. And as he gazed his 
 thoughts turned inward and searched out his 
 very heart. How empty and barren his life 
 had been! How devoid of soul-satisfying 
 achievement! Yet the thought failed, as was 
 
172 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 its wont so oft before, to carry with it the bit 
 ter pangs of self-condemnation the pangs that 
 had driven him forth on his mad effort to escape 
 himself. No, he could expose his very soul 
 now it seemed even to the sacred purity of na 
 ture, and feel that all was well. Only the 
 yearning for achievement remained, a yearning 
 that now seemed to take possession of him as 
 nothing else had ever done. He had felt the 
 urge before, but only a slight flush compared 
 with the fever that seized him now. And al 
 ways before the promptings had sent him 
 searching for he knew not what, while now the 
 fire within pointed the way. He had always 
 lived, the urge seemed to tell him, for this very 
 day, for these very hills that stretched majestic 
 ally before him; and for service to his fellow 
 men and to the holy cause of purging the moun 
 tains of the curse of the wolves of Wall Street, 
 the wildcat promoters who preyed on the credu 
 lity of small investors on the one hand and on 
 the small mine owners on the other. Since his 
 very first night in Moapa he had been thrown 
 against them, it seemed. Coming to Montana 
 as he had in an uncertain effort to run away 
 from his own self-inflicted worries, he found 
 himself forgetting them in contemplation of 
 how he could share the troubles of others, of 
 Hawkins, if he were alive, and of Tarn, who 
 seemed so strangely enmeshed in the toils of 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 173 
 
 the Salmon River Gold Company. The perils 
 and hardships of the past week had done 
 much to erase from his nature what little re 
 mained of self-centered interest and concern for 
 his own affairs. In its place had come a yearn 
 ing for more of the whole-hearted faith and 
 confidence shown him by Brud Hawkins, the 
 man of the hills. He longed for an opportunity 
 to share this man s burdens, which after all 
 seemed to have become wholly his own. 
 
 With a long gaze at the wonders of radiant 
 nature in winter time, Pete completed his toilet 
 in the cold soft snow and returned to the little 
 shack, where the welcome aroma of breakfast 
 almost tempted him to pinch the mahogany 
 cheek of the old Indian, by way of appreciation. 
 Instead, he took the place at the table that had 
 been provided for him, and devoted his entire 
 attention to the steaming oatmeal and dried 
 fish that the woman brought smoking hot, with 
 corn biscuits, from the fire. 
 
 The meal finished, he set about in as skillful 
 a manner as he could muster, learning what the 
 old Indian knew of the characters he felt must 
 figure in his immediate future. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IC^OR long weary days, days that merged into 
 -* weeks, Pete bent over his work in the 
 Dead Horse Mine. Finding on his arrival 
 there only two men, both discontented and 
 shiftless drifters, he accepted the burden of 
 carrying on the largest share of the work 
 himself. 
 
 He found the workings to be little more 
 than a rather well developed prospect with one 
 main tunnel following vein matter for probably 
 one hundred yards into the slope of the moun 
 tain. This tunnel ended abruptly, however, and 
 Ham, a seasoned old miner, who had long since 
 lost interest in everything save the avoidance 
 of starvation, had started Pete digging what 
 he termed a cross cut, a sort of new tunnel, 
 directly at right angles to the old one, insisting 
 that Pete wheel the muck from the new dig 
 gings into the space between its opening and 
 the face or end of the old tunnel. 
 
 Before many weeks had passed Pete became 
 hardened to his work, and took great pride in 
 the bulge of muscles that made even his over 
 sized flannel shirts seem small. There were 
 no regular hours for work, the men usually 
 starting early in the morning and working until 
 they had driven in the new tunnel or cross cut 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 175 
 
 an allotted distance. If the "going was good" 
 as the men said, it meant that much more 
 leisure; if the work was hard, and it usually 
 was, owing to unusual formations of the rock 
 encountered, the men continued working longer. 
 Once each week a runner came from Salmon 
 Tooth Pass, checking up the work done at the 
 mine, and bringing to the workers food, cloth 
 ing, old magazines, and such luxuries as the men 
 might send for from the commissary below. 
 At first Pete made no effort to obtain informa 
 tion from his companions, deciding it would be 
 best first to earn as much of their confidence as 
 possible. The wisdom of his policy was demon 
 strated with the first visit of the runner whom 
 Pete observed talking covertly and at some 
 length with Ham. That they were talking 
 about him, he had no doubt as he quietly ob 
 served the ill-concealed glances and motions of 
 the two men. However, he noticed a much 
 better and more friendly attitude on the part of 
 the two miners toward him after the runner had 
 left. For some time he wondered how Buller 
 had squared matters with Jenkins and others to 
 whom he was undoubtedly accountable. A re 
 mark passed quite casually by Ham, in which 
 he mentioned "breaking rock" with a significant 
 smile, cleared his mind on this point. He 
 recollected that the Gold Company seemed to 
 specialize in having fugitives from justice in its 
 
176 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 service. Buller had apparently used his first 
 hand knowledge of this policy, in arranging a 
 safe berth for Pete. Nevertheless, Pete had 
 little doubt that after all he was still virtually a 
 prisoner, and that all concerned knew him to be 
 Peter Alden and not Philip West. 
 
 Before long the two miners seemed to con 
 sider Pete one of themselves, and talked freely 
 with him. Little by little he picked up odds 
 and ends of the crooked career of the Salmon 
 River Gold Company. Several circumstances, 
 which had puzzled him deeply were explained. 
 He had never before been able to understand 
 why practically all of the old placer miners, 
 men independent and prosperous in their own 
 way, with flumes, shovels and pans, had been 
 willing to relinquish their holdings to Brown 
 ing s Company. Kloch, Ham s companion, 
 innocently enough furnished an excellent ex 
 planation. Pete deducted that through some 
 means or other, he, Kloch, had title at one time 
 to a bit of placer ground in the Gulch below. 
 Browning, Kloch explained, had made the same 
 offer and terms with him as with all the others. 
 Pete, showing unusual interest in the transac 
 tion, asked to see the contract in the matter, and 
 Kloch proudly and obligingly furnished him 
 with it. 
 
 Pete found one important provision in the 
 paper that interested him profoundly. A para- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 177 
 
 graph providing that in addition to a considera 
 tion of stock, the Company specifically agreed 
 to erect a huge dredge on the placer property 
 consolidated by them, and to have it in opera 
 tion by the last day of the coming January. 
 Even the specifications of the dredge were set 
 down in detail. Pete knew, even from his 
 limited experience in mining, what a tremendous 
 outlay of capital the project involved. 
 
 From this point on he pressed his search 
 for further information, and once he had been 
 able to engage the runner in lengthy conversa 
 tion. From him he learned that even the work 
 men at the pass were aware of something de 
 cidedly wrong at headquarters. There had 
 been rumors of trouble with some of the old 
 placer miners, and the guards at the pass were 
 finding it more and more difficult to keep men 
 from entering the gulch. For some time the 
 story of a landslide had sufficed, but lately new 
 excuses had to be made nearly every week. 
 
 His great opportunity came, however, one 
 afternoon nearly a week following his talk with 
 the runner. On this day, Pete and his two fel 
 low-workmen were surprised by an unexpected 
 visit from a group of six men, all strangers to 
 Pete. 
 
 Two of them were obviously laborers, 
 brought along to carry what equipment the 
 other four might require for the journey in 
 
178 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 addition to the small haversacks they them 
 selves carried. 
 
 Pete was as much impressed by the sudden 
 appearance of the four clean-shaven carefully 
 groomed visitors as though he himself had 
 always lived in the hills. 
 
 The visitors proved to be J. D. Browning, 
 himself, distinguished from the rest of the party 
 by the soft pink skin of his plump face and the 
 pudgy white hands that nervously tugged at his 
 well groomed mustache. Another of the party, 
 one constantly in his immediate proximity, Pete 
 found to be a Mr. Sharpe. As Pete carefully 
 took in every detail of his features he marveled 
 at the appropriateness of the name. A small 
 oblong head, from the half bald portion of 
 which steam arose in a thin vapor as the owner 
 removed his fur cap, seemed to converge into 
 a long beak-like nose with eyes on either side 
 intended apparently for no other purpose than 
 to emphasize the presence of the combined nose 
 and forehead. The pallor of his face, too, 
 blended perfectly with the dirt-flecked snow 
 about the entrance of the tunnel. 
 
 Both Browning and Sharpe snapped out 
 questions at the other two who stood with legs 
 wide apart, rolling and unrolling numerous 
 blue-prints that emerged in astonishingly large 
 quantities from folds in their pockets. It soon 
 became apparent that one was Peleg Demons, 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 179 
 
 Company engineer, and the other the company 
 lawyer, whose name Pete finally learned was 
 Houston. 
 
 After much sweeping of arms and com 
 parison of notes, interspersed with words Pete 
 could not catch, the visitors finally folded their 
 documents and advanced into the entrance of 
 the tunnel. 
 
 Demons called loudly for candles, then 
 grabbed the ones offered by Pete with the con 
 tempt and over-bearing manner of a man pass 
 ing on to inferiors abuse and derision he him 
 self is accustomed to receive. 
 
 What happened inside the tunnel Pete could 
 not know. But at the end of an hour the four 
 men came out puffing and perspiring from ex 
 ercise more strenuous than mere walking. 
 
 Another conference took place at the mouth 
 of the tunnel and this time Pete saw to it that 
 he kept within hearing distance. 
 
 A blacksmith shop, or rather a crude shelter 
 over a forge, used for heating dull steel picks 
 and drills, faced in such a way toward the par 
 ticular spot near which the four men stood, that 
 the sound of their voices carried perfectly. Pete 
 had discovered this listening post quite by acci 
 dent, during his first few days at the mine, and 
 had in fact used it frequently for the very pur 
 pose it now served him. Pete listened eagerly 
 for the expected words and was soon rewarded. 
 
180 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Browning, apparently addressing Demons, 
 talked first. 
 
 "Well there s this much about it, De 
 mons, we can t move that muck in there our 
 selves. These fool men you ve got up here are 
 apparently working. Rather unusual, but 
 nevertheless we ve got to look at that pay stuff 
 you say is in there." 
 
 "But none of the three know it s there," 
 the engineer replied, "don t you think it s dan 
 gerous? Barclay, the one who ran into it, 
 swears he covered it up at once, and told no 
 one. He s been where he can t talk for weeks 
 now." 
 
 "Well we can t keep it covered up, for 
 ever," Sharpe broke in irritably. "Houston 
 here says he s gone as far as he can in fixin the 
 title it s as much our mine now as it ever will 
 be unless you fellows can produce that Brud 
 Hawkins, or bring him back to life or some 
 thing." 
 
 Browning turned sharply to Houston, who, 
 so far as Pete could make out had said little 
 or nothing since his arrival. 
 
 "Do you think it s safe to open her up, 
 Ern?" he asked 
 
 The lawyer had plainly been asked this 
 same question many times before, judging from 
 the irritable manner in which he snapped out 
 an emphatic, "No." 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 181 
 
 At this Sharpe gave way to a tirade of 
 abuse, cursing himself for getting mixed up in 
 the deal first of all, then including Browning 
 and Demons in his denunciation, and then 
 ending by declaring that if Houston couldn t 
 figure some way of releasing the title to the 
 accursed mine, the whole project, Houston in 
 cluded, could go to hell. 
 
 Browning rose to the occasion, and as his 
 partner lost control of himself Browning now 
 gave the appearance of complete mastery of 
 the situation, and of himself most of all, as he 
 answered Sharpe : 
 
 "Now, Bill, forget it. You don t mean that. 
 If this thing blows up you know and I know 
 and Houston and Demons know there s only 
 once place we can all go. And that place ain t 
 hell, exactly, it s worse. It s got bars on the 
 doors!" 
 
 Such a statement, coming as it did from the 
 leader, caused a painful silence to fall over the 
 entire group. Browning quietly tugged at his 
 mustache as he watched the effect of his words. 
 Sharpe pouted sullenly, and ground a cigar 
 ette to powder beneath the heel of his boot. 
 Houston alone batted not an eye, and gave no 
 sign of emotion of any kind. 
 
 "A fine crowd," Pete mused to himself, as 
 he took in the silent four from the tail of his 
 eyes. 
 
182 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Peleg Demons, weakest of the lot, was first 
 to break the silence. 
 
 "Is is it so bad as that? 9 he faltered, 
 looking earnestly at Browning. 
 
 "Oh, hell, Peleg, don t come with that inno 
 cent stuff now you know what you ve done 
 to half the hold-outs you ve man-handled. How 
 many are at the bottom of old Dan Morgan s 
 shaft? You d be lucky to go to jail." 
 
 Demons winced at the words and paled 
 perceptibly, as he answered, "Well I m for 
 doing anything to keep er from busting just 
 say the word." 
 
 Sharpe, apparently recovered from his sud 
 den temper, long enough at least to find his 
 voice, lit another cigarette, and talked between 
 puffs. 
 
 "Come, boys, no use talking this way," he 
 urged in a conciliatory manner. "This thing 
 isn t going to bust. None of us needs to worry 
 if we stick together and play the game. But 
 we ve got to take chances, we ve simply got to. 
 Now tell me again, Houston, just where do 
 we stand, and for heaven s sake talk. Let s 
 get this thing straight, once for all. Where do 
 we stand without this stuff here?" From the 
 flick of ashes sent in the direction of the tunnel, 
 the "here" referred to the mine. 
 
 "We have two months to install a quarter- 
 million dollar dredge on our placer ground, or 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 183 
 
 we lose it," Houston replied. That s that. 
 You and your Wall Street concern have sold 
 more than that valuation of stock, but our con 
 cern has embezzled the money and lost it to 
 some other crowd of Wall Street pirates." 
 
 "Not that part of it, Ern," Sharpe inter 
 rupted. "I mean how do we stand on the con 
 tracts and things?" 
 
 It was Sharpe s turn now to join the panic- 
 stricken Demons. 
 
 Silent Ern Houston continued: "And, if 
 we don t make good the money to the stock 
 holders, or build our dredges, it s jail for all 
 of us maybe more for some," he added, look 
 ing furtively from Demons to Browning. 
 
 No one listening to Houston s talk could 
 fail to get the full meaning of his words or to 
 doubt the seasoned judgment behind them as 
 he continued: 
 
 "We have one chance of getting out with 
 our skin and with money. That chance is at 
 the bottom of this tunnel. If Demons story of 
 a strike is right, we ve got a chance. I m no 
 miner, and I don t know. So far as the title 
 to this property is concerned we don t own it. 
 It stands in the name of Brud Hawkins. We 
 ordered Hawkins put away and Duller Garret 
 says Slim Eliot did it." It seemed to Pete that 
 Houston mentioned the deed with distinct 
 relish. "If Hawkins is dead, and doesn t come 
 
184 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 to life, I ve got the legal end of getting the 
 title fixed. If he does turn up, well, that s 
 something else again." 
 
 Browning took up the subject where 
 Houston left it. "Now Hawkins never did 
 know what he has here, that much is certain, 
 isn t it, Demons?" he asked. 
 
 Demons assured him it was. 
 
 "Now, that being the case," Browning con 
 tinued, "I agree with Sharpe. Let s bring a 
 crew up here and get at this gold. Let s take 
 a chance on the legal end we ve got to take a 
 chance somewhere." 
 
 "Why not make it appear that the stuff is 
 coming from some other mine we can get a 
 hole in the ground somewhere for a dummy," 
 Demons suggested. 
 
 "Sounds reasonable," Browning replied, 
 "anyhow, you will be here to fix that. And 
 now, boys," turning to the others, "we re safe, 
 if nobody talks. I ll put Garrett, Jenkins and 
 the whole crowd on the lookout for strangers. 
 They think they ve been on the job before. 
 They will know it when they get through this 
 time. Jenkins is in the gap. Nobody on this 
 side will get further than him. Then there s 
 Buller on the outside, and something s got him 
 smelling for strangers lately like a lost dog. 
 Won t hurt to jog him up a bit, at that. Then 
 there s old Hatty in the gulch. She ll spot 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 185 
 
 anybody we don t. She tipped me on the last 
 one. He s here now, but he s all right, we can 
 send him up anytime we want to. Long as he s 
 working here he s alright. Rocks fall pretty 
 bad in the tunnel, anyhow, don t they, De 
 mons?" He raised his brows to the engineer 
 significantly as he asked the question. 
 
 "Just as you say," Demons answered. 
 
 "Well," Browning continued, "guess that s 
 our line up. Houston here don t say much, 
 but I know him. Even if the old Gopher does 
 put in an appearance, and Eliot s made ghosts 
 out of dozens like him, he d have a hell of a 
 time getting his legal stuff fixed up, eh, 
 Houston?" 
 
 The lawyer seemed pleased at the implied 
 flattery of his chief and smiled meekly. 
 
 "Well, I ll say we re air tight, boys, we re 
 air tight. Now let s get the men in here, and 
 see what s under that muck in the tunnel. 
 Demons, if the stuff isn t there ." Browning s 
 look must have finished the sentence, as Pete 
 heard no more. 
 
 The conference thus ended, Pete, along 
 with his two companions and the two new 
 workmen, were ordered to dig at least a pas 
 sageway over the top of the pile of stone and 
 muck that had been piled for fully fifty feet in 
 front of the face of the tunnel and were prom- 
 
186 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 ised pay for an extra shift if they could have 
 it cleared before midnight. 
 
 After several hours of hard labor Pete was 
 one of the first to plunge his shovel into loose 
 dirt directly before the base of the tunnel s 
 abrupt end. He alone, of the five workmen, 
 knew why the debris in front of the tunnel was 
 being cleared away, it seemed. Pete, however, 
 realized full well that he was nearing the end 
 of the work and bent anxiously over the new 
 rock he uncovered. For fully a minute he 
 stopped, sheer wonder holding him motionless, 
 as his eyes traveled over the white and gold 
 of the ore before him. 
 
 "Well, what you got so all fired in- 
 terestin ?" the voice of Demons sounded over 
 him, and before he could answer, he felt strong 
 hands close over his shoulders. A second more 
 and he was sprawling on his back in the muck 
 of the tunnel, Demons taking his place be 
 fore the golden treasure, picking here and there 
 with a little hand tool at the vein. At length 
 he gathered up the fragments he had picked 
 off and ordered Pete to precede him out of the 
 tunnel, calling to the other workmen to follow. 
 
 Something told Pete, as he made toward 
 the mouth of the tunnel, that he was already 
 slated as number one on the casualty list of the 
 Dead Horse Mine. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A S Pete and Demons followed by the other 
 miners made their way out of the tunnel 
 Pete took rapid stock of the situation in which 
 he found himself. He could easily imagine 
 what the sight of real gold would do for Sharpe 
 and Browning; and he knew only too well the 
 influence these men exerted over hirelings such 
 as Demons, Houston, Garret and others. 
 
 As he stumbled along over the uneven floor 
 of the tunnel he thought of Hawkins, pioneer 
 of the hills who for years had struggled against 
 all manner of hardships for this very day when 
 his judgment would be vindicated, vindicated 
 by the discovery of gold in quantities that 
 probably even he had never dreamed of. He 
 recalled the amused smile that played over 
 Hawkins face when he related how friend and 
 foe alike had derided him for spending his life 
 searching for gold in the hills when it lay all 
 around him in the placer ground of the gulch 
 below. What a queer twist of fate it was, that 
 now brought forth gold in this same despised 
 "gopher hole," to bring ruin to the same placer 
 miners who had so long made Hawkins the 
 butt of jests and good-natured fun, and, Pete 
 doubted not, oftentimes abuse. 
 
188 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 He found comfort in the thought that 
 Hawkins might not be dead after all; that he 
 might still come back to the fruits of victory! 
 Yet even as he thought it the words of Brown 
 ing sounded again in his ears. "Even if he 
 does come back, he ll have a hell of a time 
 getting his legal affairs fixed up," he had said. 
 
 "Certainly a man s job this time," Pete 
 muttered to himself as all of the complications 
 of the situation came to him. He thought of 
 Moapa and of the chances Browning might 
 have obtaining justice in a legal fight there; 
 but Buller, Little Phil Alguin, and a dozen other 
 faces he remembered all too well, loomed even 
 larger in his mind s eye than Moapa itself, and 
 he dismissed the thought. Then, as though con 
 serving even brain power, his thoughts retreated 
 from the far-stretched possibility of a legal 
 battle in Moapa and roamed again in the hills. 
 Here, too, they came to a sudden and abrupt 
 ending, brought up sharp at the Salmon Tooth 
 Pass by the cabin of Jenkins. Then, scurrying 
 back along the trail just as he himself had done, 
 they dwelled for a moment at the little snow- 
 covered shack of Indian Hatty. Even she in 
 the service of Browning! He thought the 
 thing incredible, yet he knew it to be true ! And 
 as he pictured further the fight ahead, intangible 
 and indefinite as it was, he knew it would be 
 the supreme test of his manhood; and uncon- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 189 
 
 sciously the consequences of losing, mingled 
 with his thoughts. Invariably they carried him 
 back to San Francisco. He smiled as he pic 
 tured Judge Stivers, and how he must have 
 hopped up and down with excitement on receipt 
 of the mysterious letter written from the prison 
 shack! What were his father and the Judge 
 doing? Something! Most assuredly some 
 thing! He had always marveled at the super- 
 knowledge of human nature the Judge pos 
 sessed, and at his great ability to strike quickly 
 and accurately right at the heart of things. 
 
 Lights at the mouth of the tunnel at last 
 loomed up large before him and his train of 
 thoughts soon were lost in the excited exchange 
 of words and ejaculations that met his ears. 
 Before he could fully collect his wandering 
 thoughts again, Demons, rushing past him, 
 called excitedly, then came back into the tunnel 
 with Browning and Sharpe hurrying on behind. 
 The miners, none of whom had shared with 
 Pete the sight of naked rich gold now stood 
 about for a few moments expressing only a mild 
 interest in the work, before hurrying off to the 
 bunk room in the long low house as though they 
 feared a shortage of sleeping accommodations 
 might develop. 
 
 As they passed him Pete scanned their faces 
 in the forlorn hope that some one among them 
 might impress him as a possible confidant. But 
 
190 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Browning or Demons, whoever it was that 
 hired them, was a master at selecting men, for 
 neither of the two new men satisfied Pete as 
 he turned dejectedly from his vantage point, 
 and made to follow the last of the men to the 
 house. As he turned, he bumped full into Ern 
 Houston, and he knew from the look the lat 
 ter gave him that his actions had been closely 
 watched. He apologized profusely, but the 
 thin slit of a mouth in the sphinx-like face of 
 Houston did not open; instead, the pearl han 
 dle of a revolver showed ominously from in 
 side the flap of the lawyer s coat. Feeling 
 more than ever the danger of his position, 
 Pete lost no time in seeking his bunk where he 
 lay, completely dressed, thinking hard and 
 awaiting developments. 
 
 Before long, possibly an hour or so he 
 imagined, he heard sounds of men stamping 
 snow or mud noisily from their boots on the 
 little porch that served as an entrance to the 
 bunk house. Soon Browning, Sharpe and 
 Houston entered, preceded by Demons who 
 carried two kerosene lamps. Inside the room 
 the party hesitated, as Browning s eyes swept 
 about, dwelling at some length on the men oc 
 cupying bunks along the wall. 
 
 "Hell, can t talk in here," he said, as he 
 turned an inquiring look on Demons. "Isn t 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 191 
 
 there a shack or something where we can talk 
 privately?" 
 
 "There s the old dining room," Demons re 
 plied, "nobody in there. Got no cook up here 
 any more. Let s go there." 
 
 The party acted on the engineer s sugges 
 tion, and followed him through a door that led 
 from the sleeping quarters to the adjoining 
 kitchen and dining room, where they entered 
 immediately into an animated discussion, frag 
 ments of which drifted into the bunk house. 
 Twice Pete heard Sharpe mention "high grad 
 ing" a term he himself had come to know 
 thoroughly through the daily swapping of yarns 
 with Ham and Kloch. He quickly surmised the 
 meaning of the words now, as he pictured the 
 men gouging deep into the golden treasure of 
 the mine, in frantic haste to get as much of the 
 spoils as possible before any complications of 
 ownership, remote as they were, might arise. 
 
 "Fake up a shell for a dredge on the 
 claims," was another expression that brought 
 a weight of meaning to him as he lay, strain 
 ing every faculty in an effort to catch each 
 word. "Dirty vandals," he cursed, as these 
 words came to him. "Not contented with steal 
 ing thousands from stockholders you now would 
 steal the miners gold and then build only a 
 faked shell in place of the dredge you agreed 
 to erect on their placer claims!" 
 
192 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 At length the talking quieted down some 
 one uttered a loud satisfied yawn, and suggested 
 going to bed. Following this the light reap 
 peared in the room, where for several minutes 
 Demons and Houston busied themselves drag 
 ging wire bottomed bunks toward the narrow 
 door that led into the dining room. An hour 
 later Pete heard loud snores and meaningless 
 muttering of words in dreams, and he knew the 
 men about him were fast asleep. 
 
 Stealthily he pushed the blankets to the 
 floor beside him. Then, making certain of his 
 gun, he crept silently over the side of the bunk 
 to the floor. Carrying his boots in one hand, 
 and as much of his pack equipment as he could 
 safely manage in the other, he stole toward 
 the door. Several times during even the short 
 distance he had to travel over the rough spruce 
 boards he stopped and listened attentively. 
 But all seemed well, and in a moment more he 
 found himself outside the building with his 
 stocking feet sinking deep into soft fluffy snow. 
 Great flakes floated silently down on his face 
 as he searched in vain through the intense dark 
 ness for a trace of the moon. Making his way 
 cautiously through the snow he found the shel 
 tered boards of the blacksmith shop where, by 
 the aid of candle lights, he spread the canvas 
 of his pack on the bare ground floor and took 
 careful inventory of his equipment. Twice he 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 193 
 
 stole back into the sleeping quarters, each time 
 emerging with additional articles of wearing 
 apparel; ammunition for his own and another 
 gun he managed to secure, besides a quantity 
 of dried meat and canned food taken from long 
 boxes of provisions that had been kept as emer 
 gency rations. Quickly, but with extreme care, 
 he rolled his pack and fitted it to his back. Ap 
 parently satisfied with the way it felt he unslung 
 it again from his back, snuffed his candles, put 
 ting the two he had been burning together with 
 a dozen or so others in his pocket before he 
 circled several times about the little shelter. 
 Realizing that darkness and falling snow meant 
 as much to him as liberty itself, he finally placed 
 the pack on top of the shack, tightened his belt, 
 and securely tied the laces of his high leather 
 boots. Then with the stealth of an Indian, he 
 entered the sleeping quarters once more where 
 with heart pounding fast, and every nerve a 
 tingle, he crawled directly across the floor of 
 the sleeping quarters, and on into the dining 
 room beyond. 
 
 In the intense darkness he bumped his head 
 full into a bunk that stood just inside the door. 
 For a moment he halted breathlessly, his hand 
 on the holster of his gun ready for instant ac 
 tion. But the occupant of the bunk, whoever 
 he was, slept deeply, and except for a hasty 
 
194 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 turning beneath his blankets, gave no sign of 
 being disturbed. 
 
 Inch by inch Pete made his way from bunk 
 to bunk, searching deftly with his hand for 
 clothes and haversacks. The bunk against 
 which he had bumped yielded a goodly supply, 
 and as he felt the many folds and soft wool 
 texture of the coat, he knew it belonged to 
 Demons. With a thrill of satisfaction he felt 
 the long folds of blue prints in the pockets. 
 Placing the coat beneath him to further deaden 
 the sound of his knee bones on the board floor 
 he proceeded to search for the remaining bunks. 
 For fully an hour he continued his desperate 
 work until at length he had in one pile practi 
 cally all of the clothing, boots and hats in 
 cluded, that the entire party possessed. 
 
 Congratulating himself on his initial suc 
 cess, he repeated the venture in the sleeping 
 quarters of the crew, working much quicker 
 than in the room beyond. 
 
 It was only a matter of minutes in the black 
 smith shop until all papers and documents 
 found in the confiscated clothing entered 
 the pockets of his own. So far, his plan 
 was working well. But the fact that every one 
 of the sleepers kept his gun beneath his pillow 
 disturbed him. He had hoped, though it took 
 him all night, to secure these also. Then, too, 
 there were electric flashlights among them and 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 195 
 
 he bit his lip and considered again going into 
 the rooms to renew his search. 
 
 Reason, however, overcame the zeal of the 
 moment. He abandoned the idea of further 
 search, and set about the final and by far the 
 most dangerous act of his plan. 
 
 Tying all of the stolen clothing in a large 
 bundle, which he threw into the center of the 
 tunnel, he made certain once again that his own 
 pack was secure on the roof of the little shop, 
 and prepared for a final and extremely impor 
 tant visit to the bunk house. This time he made 
 for the kitchen of the dining room, crawling 
 with even greater caution than before. Two 
 of the bunks were passed and he began to 
 breathe easily, when the occupant of the third 
 one suddenly sat bolt upright and stared quickly 
 about the room. Pete hugged the floor and 
 let his body and limbs sag limply; even a creak 
 of a knee joint would mean his finish now! 
 
 Someone directly over his head spoke : 
 
 "Matter Ern?" It was Browning s voice. 
 
 The words sounded strangely loud in the 
 still room. 
 
 "Nothing. Tho t I heard someone mov 
 ing. Guess I was dreaming." 
 
 Pete recognized Houston s voice, and heard 
 the lawyer yawn and settle back into the blan 
 kets. Pete breathed a prayer of thankfulness 
 at the sound, only an instant later to have his 
 
196 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 heart jump as though to leave his chest entirely, 
 as Browning sat upright. 
 
 "Sleepin rotten myself," he muttered. 
 "Guess I need a cigarette." 
 
 With an agony of suspense, Pete heard 
 Browning s hands rasp over the floor in evident 
 search for his coat. 
 
 "Funny where my damn coat s gone to," 
 he remarked, as Pete heard him move closer 
 to the edge of the bed. "Guess I ll have to 
 light up and look for it." 
 
 Houston turned on his side. "Oh, don t 
 do that," he grunted sleepily. "Here my 
 coat s right near my pillow. No use wakin the 
 whole crew up here." 
 
 Quick as a flash, Pete searched his own 
 pockets and produced a cigarette and matches. 
 He was none too soon, for the shadowy form 
 of Browning s outstretched hand was not 
 twelve inches from him when he met it with 
 the cigarette and match. 
 
 Browning s fingers closed upon them. 
 "Thanks, Ern," he mumbled, placing the cig 
 arette to his mouth. "You re always a handy 
 
 man." 
 
 Then striking the match with a thumb nail 
 he made a cup of his hands, lit his cigarette, 
 and threw the dead match away. 
 
 "Thanks?" Houston questioned in surprise. 
 "What are you thanking me for ? I can t find my 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 197 
 
 coat either." Pete trembled as he heard the 
 speaker fumbling about with his hands in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "Oh, well, hell, I ve got the cigarette, any 
 how, Ern," Browning grunted between puffs, 
 "I m thanking you for that, I don t want to 
 smoke your coat. You damn lawyers a man s 
 even got to specify what he s thanking you 
 for!" 
 
 This ended the dialogue, and none too 
 soon, for to Pete s excited senses it seemed that 
 everyone in both rooms was turning and twist 
 ing at once. 
 
 He felt as though he had been holding his 
 breath all night as now, with the talking evi 
 dently over, he took a quiet, slow breath of re 
 lief and settled down to rest while Browning 
 smoked. What seemed to him to be hours 
 afterwards he noted the even regular breath 
 ing of Houston, and heard Browning lean far 
 over the side of the cot and extinguish the 
 butt of his cigarette on the floor. 
 
 The coast clear once again Pete continued 
 his stealthy maneuvering across the floor, this 
 time gaining the kitchen without further inter 
 ruptions. 
 
 Taking a half empty flour sack from a bin 
 he groped gingerly about in the large sawdust 
 filled powder box for the dynamite he knew 
 was there. Stick after stick he tucked carefully 
 
198 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 into the flour, thinking that by doing so he 
 might add to the safety of carrying the dan 
 gerous stuff about in the darkness, although 
 from its frozen condition he felt that this pre 
 caution was unnecessary. With nearly two 
 dozen of the sticks safely tucked away he began 
 his perilous journey back through the rooms. 
 He thought the darkness about him was al 
 ready beginning to pale and he quickened his 
 movements. On gaining the door to the outer 
 sleeping quarters, he breathed easily again and, 
 straightening to his full length, proceeded with 
 wide stealthy strides into the falling snow. 
 
 He lost no time now as morning was indeed 
 breaking. But for the heavy falling snow it 
 would already be light, he feared, as he made 
 hastily for the mouth of the tunnel. Grasping 
 the huge bundle of stolen clothing, and with 
 lighted candle affixed to his miner s hat, he 
 rushed hurriedly on, not stopping until the very 
 end of the tunnel was reached. With tremb 
 ling hands he began at once making hole after 
 hole along both sides of the tunnel and along 
 its roof above his head, continuing the work 
 until he had covered a distance of nearly sixty 
 feet. 
 
 Feeling that he could spare no more time 
 with such work, he set about placing dynamite. 
 He had assisted Ham with what little powder 
 work had been done, and he remembered now 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 199 
 
 how easily dynamite could freeze beyond the 
 point of usefulness. With a pang of sudden dis 
 appointment he now anxiously felt the frozen 
 sticks, and knew it would be impossible to use 
 them until they were thawed out. For a mo 
 ment he stood there calling desperately upon 
 the resourcefulness that had favored him so 
 generously throughout the night. It did not 
 fail him now. Without a moment s further 
 hesitation he placed the bundle of clothing 
 against the wall of the tunnel, and touched a 
 lighted candle to it. Then, as soon as the 
 flames became sufficiently strong, he deliber 
 ately placed his bag of death and destruction 
 over them realizing full well as he did so that 
 any moment he might be blown into eternity. 
 Nevertheless he kept his post, and felt anx 
 iously of the fast-softening sticks within the 
 bag, as minute after minute slipped by. In 
 deadly earnest he held them there, grimly 
 grinding his teeth together until the muscles of 
 his jaws fairly bulged beneath the skin! 
 
 Cold beads of perspiration trickled down 
 from his forehead before he yielded and con 
 sented to place the softened sticks between the 
 small clefts he had made in the tunnel. Prim 
 ing and fusing was but the work of a moment; 
 then, after cramming the remaining sticks into 
 his pockets, he touched the candle to the master 
 fuse and started a mad rush for the pale day- 
 
200 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 light without. It was the first time he had ever 
 used dynamite alone and on his own responsi 
 bility, and for aught he knew the deadly con 
 cussion of the blast would sound ere he covered 
 half the distance to the blacksmith shop and 
 safety. 
 
 Early in his mad flight his candle blew out. 
 His heavy boots hindered rather than helped 
 him as he tried desperately to make speed and 
 yet keep his footing. One bad fall on the rocky 
 floor with a stick of the powder in his pockets 
 striking under him and he knew he would never 
 hear the blasts behind. Fifty seventy-five 
 one hundred yards; he slackened his pace. Per 
 haps he hadn t prepared the blasts right after 
 all, he suddenly thought. Then, as though 
 ashamed of the near panic he was in, he even 
 slowed down to a walk before finally emerging 
 into the entrance way of the tunnel. And well 
 he did! Premonition was certainly aiding 
 resource now, for no sooner was he in the short 
 wind-break that formed the entrance to the 
 tunnel, than he heard loud curses emanating 
 from the bunk houses. Dropping quickly to 
 his hands and knees, he sneaked rapidly for 
 ward and peered over the embankment. One 
 look, and he flattened suddenly on the ground. 
 There on the porch and in the doorway of the 
 bunk house was a sight strange to behold. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 201 
 
 Sharpe standing in his underwear, with 
 naked feet buried in fully six inches of snow, 
 tails of his flannel shirt whipping grotesquely 
 in the wind, was wildly thrashing the air with 
 a gun, calling loudly the while for all manner 
 of accursed thieves to come out and fight. The 
 fuzzy hair on the back of his head stood up in 
 bold relief over his bald pate, and his huge 
 nose seemed actually to dilate with anger. 
 
 Back of him stood Browning, attired even 
 as was Sharpe himself, except that the flapping 
 shirt tails were missing. The flabby, pointed 
 paunch of his stomach that fitted so well in street 
 attire, seemed woefully misplaced and ridicu 
 lous now as it strained at the buttons of his 
 union suit. Other men were peering from win 
 dows on both sides of the door, and some even 
 pranced about within the doorway itself as 
 though anxious to break past Browning and 
 stand in the cold snow with Sharpe. 
 
 The contrast between his recent rendez 
 vous with death, and the queer antics of the 
 men before him, made Pete choke with 
 laughter. His only desire in life at the mo 
 ment it seemed, was to rise to his feet and 
 whoop from sheer delight. However, thoughts 
 of the ominous moments to come and the ex 
 pected thunder of the blast behind, impelled 
 him to action of a far different kind. 
 
 Grasping a gun from either hip he sprang 
 
202 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 suddenly up and sent a volley of bullets whist 
 ling above the confused heads in the doorway 
 and windows of the bunk house. Then, feeling 
 assured of the effect of his volley, he looked a 
 moment upon the wild scene it caused, and 
 rushed quickly to the blacksmith shop by the 
 tunnel side, slung his pack to his shoulders, and 
 rushed off into the snow-storm, and down the 
 trail toward Salmon Tooth Pass. Scarcely had 
 he turned his back to the mine, however, when 
 came a deafening roar coupled with a blast of 
 wind which literally swept him from his feet. 
 The very earth, it seemed, shook beneath him. 
 
 Pete smiled grimly as the echoes reverber 
 ated about him. Then gathering himself to 
 his feet he plunged boldly and unafraid down 
 the snow-covered, treacherous trail of the 
 mountain side. 
 
 Hours afterward, the half naked prisoners 
 in the bunk house heard still another deafening 
 roar far down in the gully below and they 
 knew that Jenkins would no longer be telling 
 a lie when he posted signs reading: 
 
 "Salmon Tooth Pass closed landslides 
 blocking the Trail." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AY after day Pete wallowed through snow 
 and braved the cold blasts that swept 
 upon him like myriad spears of ice over the 
 mountain tops. Each day found him seeking a 
 new vantage spot nearer and nearer the high 
 bluffs that overhung the Salmon River Valley, 
 and every night as he lit his campfire, he stood 
 long before it making signals as best he could 
 by aid of blankets, hoping against hope that 
 Tam, wherever she was, might see them. 
 
 Time and again he was forced back into the 
 gulch below in search of food, often finding it 
 necessary to spend many hours of daylight 
 before he could shoot a single fish, or start up 
 a rabbit or fool-hen from the snow-covered 
 trees of the bottom land. Twice he was com 
 pelled to visit the shack of the old Indian, each 
 time lying carefully under cover to make cer 
 tain that no lurking gangster awaited within 
 the cabin. On both occasions he was forced by 
 necessity to take large supplies of meal, coffee, 
 sugar and salt; but he was careful to leave 
 money behind, knowing full well that the sly 
 old woman would have no difficulty in replen 
 ishing her supplies when the runner again made 
 his way up the gulch from Jenkins commissary 
 
204 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 at the pass. His second trip to the shack, how 
 ever, was his last one. All along the trail he 
 found undeniable evidence that many men had 
 gone up the canyon toward the Dead Horse 
 Mine. His shaggy beard growing full into a 
 shock of hair that fell in masses from his head, 
 shook with laughter as he pictured the last 
 sight he had had of the four conspirators, and 
 their men. How long they remained before 
 help came he could not know; yet hardly a day 
 passed but he listened long for signs of 
 work on the huge mass of rock he had blasted 
 across the narrows of the gulch. So far, they 
 had not begun work upon it, but with the 
 dispatching of workmen to the Dead Horse, 
 (and he could think of no other meaning in the 
 tracks on the trail by Hatty s shack), he feared 
 that the blasted rock, too, would soon be cleared 
 away. 
 
 On the morning of the tenth day Pete 
 arose stiff and cramped from cold, and busied 
 himself over a meager breakfast of boiled corn 
 and coffee. 
 
 He had never tired of the glories of early 
 morning, especially when the sun rose clear and 
 bright, sending its magic touch, like the brush 
 of a master painter, over the vast, rolling moun 
 tains about him. The very greatness of the 
 picture it unfolded gave to him a sense of se- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 205 
 
 curity and safety, in spite of his intense loneli 
 ness. 
 
 Now, as he sat before his breakfast fire 
 after ten days of constant struggle with the 
 elements, the grandeur of the panorama seemed 
 to suggest a new and different meaning. For 
 the first time, it seemed, the overwhelming odds 
 against which he waged his lone struggle stood 
 out in the very vastness of the wilderness about 
 him. For the first time, too, since he plunged 
 into the snow-covered mountains, he began to 
 question his plan of action, and to wish he had 
 gone to Moapa to fight his enemies where he 
 knew they were. Only the deep-rooted convic 
 tion that Hawkins was still alive and must be 
 found, and that Tamarack Sue was with him, 
 somewhere in the very hills about him, pre 
 vented his immediate departure for the pass. 
 As he contemplated such a journey, he pictured 
 his meeting with Jenkins and Buller and per 
 haps with Demons or even Browning himself, 
 and he unconsciously expanded his muscle- 
 ribbed chest and felt the vigor of new strength 
 course through his veins. What a pleasure it 
 would be to meet them, one or all! He craved 
 an opportunity to test his new-born strength; 
 to meet the curs of this murderous gang and 
 crush them beneath his heel! 
 
 Nor was the temptation to quit his vigil on 
 the hills and carry the battle to his enemies 
 
206 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 wholly without support of reason. For ten 
 nights he had built fires and signaled; he had 
 built them on vantage points from which his 
 eye could sweep the mountains for miles, and 
 the valley below even to Moapa itself, yet he 
 had received not even a hint of answer. He 
 thought long and hard, first favoring his im 
 pulse to be among men, then yielding finally to 
 the old arguments of reason that had sent him 
 on his present mission ten days before. 
 
 As he sat and pondered thus the sun burst 
 forth with a flood of light that made even the 
 distant peaks seem close and friendly. There 
 had been no snow for two days, and Pete could 
 see his trail of the day before running for hun 
 dreds of yards down the mountain side. It 
 was the first time he had left a trail and the full 
 significance of the thought came over him with 
 a sudden rush, as he recalled that always before 
 snow had fallen, at least sometime during each 
 twenty-four hours. Even the tracks of many 
 men by the Indian s cabin were half filled with 
 it, and it was still snowing when he had left 
 there, he recalled. Then came a premonition, 
 a feeling, odd enough, that he might not have 
 to go to the valley below, after all, to meet his 
 enemies! With a burst of sudden energy, he 
 rolled his pack securely, threw it over his shoul 
 ders, and proceeded eagerly to the task of 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 207 
 
 making a trail more to his liking than the one 
 he had left the night before. 
 
 With the deftness and assurance of a na 
 tive mountaineer coupled with the cunningness 
 of a hunted man, he made his way, circling this 
 way and that, directly over high points that 
 stood fearlessly above the rest, and plunging 
 through little clumps of stunted mountain cedar, 
 always working with a definite object in view, 
 until he reached a location that seemed to suit 
 his fancy. 
 
 As the afternoon approached he set about 
 preparing camp for the night. For the first 
 time he selected a spot well hidden from view, 
 yet one from which his eye could sweep sev 
 eral of the high spots of his recent trail. 
 
 As the evening shadows gathered, he felt 
 more and more convinced that someone was 
 on his trail. Not that he had positive evidence ; 
 but because it was such an obvious way for 
 Browning to w 7 reak vengeance upon him. He 
 wondered what type of man would be selected 
 for such a mission. Would it be one who would 
 steal upon him in the night and end matters 
 quickly and silently, while he slept? 
 
 As darkness slowly settled over the moun 
 tains, Pete became more and more convinced of 
 the nearness of someone on his trail, and with 
 the thrill of near-combat in his veins, he threw 
 his provident scrimping of rations to the winds, 
 
208 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 and set about preparing a meal fit for the role 
 he hoped soon to fill. With almost reckless 
 abandon he cut deep into his precious supply 
 of fat bacon, leaving scarcely enough for a 
 morning meal. Into melted snow water he 
 poured handful after handful of finely ground 
 corn, stirring it as it boiled with the whittled 
 end of a cedar spoon. Then came the most 
 reckless act of all, the opening of a can of pre 
 served fruit. How carefully had he cherished 
 this delicacy against the day when he could 
 serve it, together with a meal of his own cook 
 ing, to Hawkins and Susie ! 
 
 As he finished the meal, there beside the 
 dying embers of the camp-fire, he looked long 
 and far into the dull red of the setting sun. 
 What a short cry it was after all, he thought, 
 from man as God intended him, to man as he 
 himself had been only a few short months be 
 fore ! Now, even as he toyed with his guns, 
 cold, deadly reminders of imminent battle, his 
 soul seemed satisfied and for a moment in ac 
 cord with nature unspoiled by man ! Yet only 
 a day before, it seemed, he had been tossing 
 about on an unnatural sea of conflicting emo 
 tions, coming he knew now from the ever-in 
 creasing struggle of man living on man rather 
 than nature. True, all of the intrigues and vil 
 lainies of depraved manhood were within a 
 stone s throw of his very camp-fire, and as he 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 209 
 
 slowly limbered the hammers of his guns he 
 knew full well that with all the purity of nature 
 about him his very life, for the present at least, 
 was devoted to a bitter struggle against his 
 fellow-men. Nevertheless, it was this very 
 thought that brought home to him the full sig 
 nificance of the slumbering peacefulness of the 
 almighty greatness about him. Even as the 
 storm-wrecked mariner looks hopefully out 
 from angry treacherous seas for the glassy sun 
 lit blue of placid waters, so Pete looked from 
 the man-made war that engulfed him, out onto 
 the world of promise; the untenanted hills and 
 valleys of the wilderness. 
 
 Yet it was only a promise, a definite and 
 certain bargain, it seemed to Pete, whose mind 
 from being too much alone began to picture his 
 enemies, Browning, Sharpe and the entire 
 crowd that went with them, as enemies alike of 
 the goddess nature; sore spots festering in the 
 side of peace and harmony they seemed. And 
 the thought only whetted his appetite the more 
 for the day of reckoning! When it came, he 
 told himself, the reward would be his! Often 
 he had thought of the reward, and wondered 
 after all what it would mean to him. There 
 was the wealth of the Dead Horse Mine ; Haw 
 kins would share that with him, he knew. 
 Gold! No, the thought was repulsive. At 
 one time he had had the use of all of the stuff 
 
210 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 he wanted, and the very use of it had sent him 
 racing madly along what he now pictured as a 
 hopeless, cheerless road a trail of sickly yel 
 low that seemed to end in a swamp of distorted 
 notions, blasted hopes, lost souls and despon 
 dency. No, it was not gold ! The glory of vic 
 tory then, the elation that would come through 
 establishing the supremacy of right over 
 wrong! Yes, surely, there would be great sat 
 isfaction in winning the fight. Yet somehow 
 the thought that victory over the skulking ene 
 mies of the hills, alone constituted his reward 
 failed to satisfy him. Something was lacking 
 still, something his heart demanded, and he 
 knew what it was even as all men know ! The 
 companionship of a woman the soul-satisfy 
 ing blending of kindred spirits and strong vig 
 orous bodies. 
 
 Woman ! Ah ! With a pang of remorse he 
 reviewed his knowledge of them, of women 
 who adorned the yellow trail! As he thought 
 of them he closed his eyes and looked upon the 
 trail as it seemed to him now, a trail jammed 
 with humanity. On its gilded way he pictured 
 men in the lead, men doing as they pleased to 
 the extent of their ability; some pausing occa 
 sionally to take on a new stock of "isms," new 
 notions and explanations in justification of their 
 heedless journey. On this trail he seemed to 
 see the women he had known ; some in the van- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 211 
 
 guard with the men, but mostly a group just 
 beginning the perilous journey. He saw them 
 hesitate, noted the invisible restraint, the silent 
 protesting of their souls ! Then, as they strug 
 gled with themselves there came counter-cur 
 rents from the vanguard of men and women 
 ahead messengers, it seemed, bringing strange 
 and fascinating doctrines. There was one car 
 rying a banner called The New Psyche; still 
 others parading the lure of "Free Love," "trial 
 marriage" and other fascinating doctrines, until 
 finally he saw first one, and then another of the 
 women he knew break from the hesitating 
 crowd and rush past the banner bearers and 
 on to the mob in front! 
 
 A woman, yes, but not one of these ! He 
 shuddered as he opened his eyes and looked 
 again toward the setting sun. Unworthy as he 
 was, he knew now his soul had never surren 
 dered; and he breathed silent thanks for the 
 strange, unaccountable something that had sent 
 him rushing madly away from himself, on the 
 journey that ended in the mountains, and he 
 prayed that when his reward came, if ever he 
 earned one, it would be a woman with a soul 
 that could bare itself to the purity of the moun 
 tains about him, and that he would be worthy 
 to accept such a reward! 
 
 As the fire died out, he sought a sheltered 
 spot near tumbled boulders, burrowed a hole 
 
212 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 into the snow, wrapped himself warmly in 
 blanket and canvas, and went to sleep with the 
 sun. 
 
 For the first time since his flight to the hills 
 he remained quietly hidden in his hole in the 
 snow for fully a half hour after the sun was up. 
 Instead of plunging boldly out, as was his cus 
 tom, he now carefully furrowed a long tele 
 scope-like hole through snow he had banked 
 against the hole to cover his retreat. For fully 
 a half hour he lay there silently watching the 
 back trail. His strategy served him well for 
 there, scarcely one hundred yards down the 
 mountain side, came two lithe figures with light 
 packs slung high on their backs and rifles, glit 
 tering in the sunshine, in their hands. Pete, 
 however, greeted the sight with little or no 
 emotion for he had been certain for hours past 
 that someone would come and had long since 
 prepared himself for the expected encounter. 
 
 Nevertheless, he studied them carefully as 
 they approached, and soon made out the leader 
 to be none other than Slim Eliot, the half-breed. 
 The man behind was a stranger, but Pete 
 could tell from his manner that he was a man 
 used to winter travel, and from the great simi 
 larity of features of the two he deducted that 
 the unknown was also a half-breed and perhaps 
 even related to Eliot. 
 
 Pete, thanks to the care with which he had 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 213 
 
 made his trail the day before, had ample op 
 portunity to observe his would-be captors, as 
 they circled about the high point, keeping their 
 eyes glued on the trail that led to the miniature 
 plateau where Pete had made his camp. 
 
 Gradually they made their way until only 
 one lap separated them from the tell-tale re 
 mains of the camp-fire. In spite of his well- 
 laid plan of action Pete felt more than ordinary 
 concern over the cramped stiffness of his body 
 caused by his long sleep in the snow bank. With 
 desperate energy he kicked his feet and 
 thrashed his limbs about in their narrow quar 
 ters. His fingers were stiff and cold, but he 
 had plenty of time to adjust them to the trigger 
 guards of his guns, one of which he held in 
 each hand. 
 
 Shivering from the tenseness of the mo 
 ment he pulled up his knees beneath him and 
 made ready to spring. He could plainly hear 
 the loud thumping of his heart as he watched 
 eagerly for the first appearance of the fur cap 
 ped heads above the last ridge. Suddenly they 
 appeared, and so close to him that he could 
 actually see the snapping black of their eyes. 
 With a tremendous burst of energy he flung the 
 snow from before him and fairly catapulted 
 himself to the snow before the half-breeds. 
 With a startled cry of astonishment, Eliot and 
 
214 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 his mate shrunk back confused and shocked 
 into abject helplessness. 
 
 "Rifles down, hands up, quick!" Pete thun 
 dered, as he towered above them. 
 
 Apparently expecting instant death, both 
 men eagerly complied with the command, and 
 began to plead for mercy. 
 
 "Pardon, M sieu Alden, pardon!" they 
 cried in broken French and English. 
 
 "We ees queet so pardon!" 
 
 "Keep your arms high and turn your backs, 
 I might need your other guns," Pete ordered, 
 advancing on the men as he did so. Then, ex 
 tracting revolvers and two murderous knives 
 from their belts, he shouted suddenly: 
 
 "Now get up on the hill and we ll see about 
 this pardow stuff. Quick, jump !" He empha 
 sized his latest command by pumping two shots 
 into the snow beneath the feet of his victims. 
 The effect was instantaneous; with incredible 
 quickness the two breeds sprang over the three 
 or four feet of the raise, and gained the minia 
 ture hill above. Pete, thoroughly satisfied with 
 the apparent abject submission of the men, hesi 
 tated a moment before following, to throw the 
 captured guns and knives into the soft snow at 
 his feet. The rifles had already disappeared in 
 it, and for a second only Pete bent over to add 
 the captured guns and knives to the pile. But 
 that second was enough. Quick as a flash, like 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 215 
 
 two frenzied catamounts, Eliot and his com 
 panion sprang upon him! The sudden impact 
 of their bodies sent Pete face first floundering 
 in the snow, where, with a prodigious effort, 
 he wallowed about, swinging his arms flail-like 
 until at length he grasped a boot strap in one 
 hand, and an arm in the other. Whether they 
 belonged to the same man or not he could not 
 tell. Bringing to bear all of the pent-up 
 strength of muscles made hard as steel through 
 weary weeks of strenuous labor at the mine, he 
 made one mighty flop, keeping his vice-like grip 
 on the boot strap and arm as he did so, and 
 hurled himself over the edge of the ridge. 
 Then followed a strange conglomeration of 
 arms, legs and bodies as the three rolled and 
 slid down the mountain side. Early in the wild 
 plunge, Pete knew he was securely entangled 
 with both of his assailants, and with deadly ef 
 fect he used every opportunity to shift his grip 
 from one place to another, punching viciously 
 into the rolling bodies as he did so. For fully 
 half a minute the three continued their desper 
 ate struggle down the mountain side, piling up 
 finally on rocks a full hundred yards below with 
 a force that only snow prevented from inflicting 
 certain death. Down, down into the drifted 
 snow they sank, resting finally in a smothering 
 heap of flour-like whiteness. Somewhere along 
 the descent, Pete had lost one of his men; at 
 
216 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 least he had hold of but one when he finally 
 came to the dizzy realization that he had no 
 broken bones and was still in Montana, with 
 an hired assassin, resting apparently stunned, in 
 his arms. 
 
 Badly shaken as he was, he commenced at 
 once a frantic scramble for the air without. 
 With his first movement came a stinging blow 
 on the chin from the man in his arms. With a 
 grunt of rage, Pete retaliated, not with one 
 arm, but with both fists working at short range 
 like trip hammers on the body and face of the 
 breed. For fully half a minute the two men 
 fought, first one and then the other landing 
 short-arm, muffled blows. Gradually they 
 worked themselves near the edge of the drift, 
 and as the surface came near, the fight in 
 creased in intensity. Even in the midst of the 
 battle Pete gloried in the response of his mus 
 cles and lungs, as he called upon them for more 
 and more. He was first to emerge, and still 
 grasping his adversary by the neck, he jerked 
 the face to the light of day and smashed into 
 it with a powerful blow of his right fist. The 
 man sank limply into the snow and Pete knew 
 that Slim Eliot would be floating on fluffy 
 clouds for a goodly while. 
 
 With the lust of battle still gripping him 
 tensely he took a long breath and looked about 
 for Eliot s companion. He expected to find 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 217 
 
 him emerging from the snowdrift, but was 
 wholly unprepared for the shock he received 
 when, turning in his tracks, he found himself 
 looking into the muzzle of a rifle. 
 
 "Now it ees for you my frien Pierre 
 weel now keel you so !" 
 
 Pete, as though stupefied with horror at the 
 sudden turn of events, looked helplessly into 
 the muzzle of the rifle. By some miracle, the 
 breed had become disentangled early in the de 
 scent down the hill, and had had sufficient time 
 to recover his weapon. 
 
 As he listened to the words, Pete realized 
 he would be dead already, save for the inher 
 ent craving of the Indian blood for torture. 
 Pete looked sullenly at the rifle, as though to 
 dare it to finish its work. As he looked his 
 eyes opened wide. Pierre saw the expression. 
 
 "You mean we will both die the muzzle 
 of your rifle is packed with snow it will ex 
 plode !" Pete shouted. 
 
 The truth of the words were all too ob 
 vious to the half-breed who knew full well the 
 danger of firing a shell into a plugged-up bar 
 rel. Yet he tried desperately to maintain his 
 supremacy. 
 
 "Pierre is betteir wis ze knife; he weel 
 keel you, my frien 1" he snarled, as he drop 
 ped the rifle to the ground and whipped out one 
 
218 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 of the long dagger-like knives Pete had earlier 
 removed from his belt. 
 
 With the slight turn of fortune in his favor, 
 Pete sprang into action. Scraping a great dou 
 ble handful of snow he threw it full at the face 
 of the advancing breed, plunging off sideways 
 as he did so directly at the body of the pros 
 trate Eliot. With sheer strength of back and 
 arms, he jerked the limp form to its feet and 
 held it there as a buffer between himself and 
 Pierre. A second more, and the latter would 
 have released the long knife, which he held 
 poised in the air for a deadly throw. 
 
 For fully ten minutes Pierre danced like a 
 mad man in a semi-circle, as near the soft drift 
 as he could get, sparring for a vantage spot 
 from which to release his knife. Gradually 
 Pete worked his way closer and closer, strain 
 ing every muscle, as he jerked his human shield 
 about to meet the menacing knife. 
 
 Seeing the uselessness of the effort, Pierre 
 at length put the knife between his teeth, and 
 bent over the rifle, as though to remove from 
 the barrel the tightly frozen wad of snow. One 
 slit of air, however small, through that wad, 
 and Pete knew the fight would be over, yet he 
 knew of no way the trick could be done. 
 
 With a crafty, sinister smile Pierre quickly 
 snatched out the tail of his heavy woolen shirt 
 and cut a piece nearly a foot square from it. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 219 
 
 A second more and it was lighted, the hot flame 
 going directly into the snow packed barrel of 
 the rifle. 
 
 With a frenzied shout of desperation, Pete 
 summoned all of his strength, clutched firmly 
 at the body of Eliot who already was slowly 
 regaining consciousness in his arms, whipped 
 him high above his head, and before Pierre 
 could move, sent Eliot crashing into him! So 
 terrific was the impact of the blow that both of 
 the breeds disappeared as though by magic be 
 neath the crust of snow that covered the drift, 
 Pete staggering in after them. But he had no 
 opportunity there to come to grips with the wily 
 Pierre, who, thinking the rifle must surely be 
 in the hands of his enemy, frantically burrowed 
 his way to the far side of the drift, and with a 
 frightened yell sprang out and over the mass of 
 boulders, running, sliding and rolling in turns, 
 down the slope of the mountain. Keeping his 
 eye on Eliot, Pete finally shook the snow of his 
 second plunge from him, picked up the now 
 useful rifle and sent half a dozen shots in the 
 general direction of the fast-retreating Pierre, 
 hoping to increase the panic with which the 
 breed was apparently leaving the mountains. 
 
 Completely exhausted as he was from the 
 strenuous exercise of the morning, he leisurely 
 tied the wrists and ankles of Eliot, and sat 
 basking in the sun until sufficient strength re- 
 
220 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 turned to enable him to negotiate the steep 
 hill down which they had rolled. 
 
 At length, however, he succeeded in moving 
 all of the equipment from the camp above, 
 down to where his prisoner lay, now fully con 
 scious, but sullenly quiet. 
 
 By adding the food taken from the two 
 packs of the breeds, Pete was finally able to 
 prepare a breakfast that did ample justice to 
 the state of his appetite, and apparently to that 
 also of his prisoner. 
 
 Breakfast finished the packs were again 
 rolled, and with a veritable arsenal about his 
 belt, Pete began on Eliot. Starting with the as 
 sumption that Hawkins must still be alive, and 
 that Eliot knew where he was, he conducted a 
 third degree examination that lasted for hours. 
 
 At first Eliot stoutly refused to talk and 
 neither threats or promises could induce him 
 to tell what he knew. But at length Pete dis 
 covered the tack that proved successful. By 
 the merest chance he referred to Pierre as 
 Eliot s brother, and to the old Indian woman 
 in the gulch as his mother. Following this 
 line, Pete repeated a mythical story in which 
 the old squaw told him that her son Eliot had 
 not searched for the fifty thousand dollars at 
 all, but had intended double-crossing Buller 
 and Alguin. Following this, and perhaps be- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 221 
 
 cause he hoped for clemency at the hands of 
 Pete, Eliot confessed the entire intrigue con 
 cerning the supposed cache of money, told a 
 broken story of how he had started for Jumbo 
 Point, but had been persuaded by his mother 
 to give up the trip until Spring, when it would 
 be safer. Then he told how he had reported 
 the story Pete had told to be a lie, and how, 
 finally, he found it actually to be a lie when 
 Pierre, his brother, came back and said that 
 Hawkins had cached nothing in the Jumbo 
 Point region, as Pierre himself was trapping 
 there, and would certainly have found Haw- 
 kins trail. Eliot then told how he believed 
 Hawkins had hid the money somewhere; and 
 how, when Buller went to kill him, taking Eliot 
 with his sled along to haul the body, he himself 
 had induced Bull to let him commit the deed. 
 Buller, he said, had at first objected, but when 
 Tamarack Sue said she could not love a man 
 who killed, Eliot was given the job, Buller 
 hastening back to the prison house to meet the 
 Sheriff, whom he expected would be coming 
 for Pete. 
 
 Eliot proposed a scheme to Tamarack Sue 
 for saving Hawkins life, he went on, as soon 
 as Buller left. She had agreed to the scheme, 
 and together they took the wounded man to a 
 lonely cabin far out in the mountains. 
 
222 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Since then Hawkins had twice given him 
 false information about the supposed fifty 
 thousand dollars, he complained; and he was 
 just returning from his second trip, when he 
 met Houston, Browning s lawyer. 
 
 Slim Eliot wanted to stop at this point in 
 the story, but Pete urged and led him on, ex 
 plaining that he already knew enough to make 
 trouble but that if he knew it all he might 
 let Slim go. 
 
 With great reluctance, Eliot repeated how 
 Houston directed him to bring back the dead 
 body of Brud Hawkins; and of what he would 
 do if Eliot failed to obey. 
 
 It seemed from Eliot s rather sketchy 
 story, that long before the advent of the Sal 
 mon River Gold Co., someone, probably Eliot s 
 mother, had committed a desperate crime on 
 the Indian reservation, following which she 
 had changed her name and disappeared, other 
 Indians on the reservation assisting by swear 
 ing she was dead. In looking up titles to placer 
 claims, Houston, Eliot explained, had in some 
 strange manner traced his mother from her 
 claim in the gulch back to the old crime. It 
 was the fear of having her brought to trial for 
 this crime, that made Eliot willing to obey 
 Houston. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 223 
 
 "And did you bring back Hawkins 1 body?" 
 Pete asked, his voice choking with emotion. 
 
 "No," Eliot answered reluctantly, "Mees- 
 ter Houston, he ees want you queek then 
 come M sieu Hawkins." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 C PURRED on by the sudden favorable turn 
 ^ of the wheel of fortune which now held 
 out the promise of an early meeting with Haw 
 kins and Tarn, Pete bent every effort toward 
 getting well under way before the compara 
 tively easy travel under clear skies gave way 
 to perilous journeying through storm-ridden 
 mountains. 
 
 Following the recital of his sordid story, 
 Eliot seemed submissive and willing enough to 
 become a party to a temporary truce with his 
 late enemy, but Pete took no unnecessary 
 chances. Always during the day Eliot led the 
 way, Pete carrying the packs of both of them 
 in consideration of the greater hardships of 
 breaking the trail which fell upon the half- 
 breed. Each night Pete selected the camp site 
 with great care, always locating in the vicinity 
 of rocky, broken country, where a cave beneath 
 or between boulders could be used for sleeping 
 quarters. Every night Eliot went in first, Pete 
 assuming the role of a sleeping guard at the 
 entrance. He had thrown away all but his own 
 two guns and at night he took pains to keep 
 these on the side nearest the entrance. 
 
 For three days they tramped silently and 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 225 
 
 hard, the breed setting a killing pace that would 
 have worn out any but an experienced and 
 hardened mountaineer; but Pete s life at the 
 mine, and his weary tramps through the moun 
 tains preceding the meeting of Eliot and his 
 brother, stood him in good stead now as he 
 swung along behind the leader, face set hard, 
 and eyes grimly fastened on the distant peak 
 that marked the trail s end. Eliot had said the 
 journey would carry them thirty miles at least, 
 but when he had pointed out the peak, Pete 
 felt that the distance had been over-estimated 
 by at least one-half. Now at the end of the 
 third day he was beginning to feel that if the 
 breed had been at fault in his guess, it was be 
 cause he had grossly underestimated the dis 
 tance. 
 
 Scarcely a word passed between the men 
 as they made their third camp. Eliot seemed 
 to devote his entire attention to long and anx 
 ious looks at little flecks of clouds that gath 
 ered like puffs of fluffy cotton about the setting 
 sun. Pete saw his worried look and asked its 
 meaning. 
 
 The sun-dogs they are come," he an 
 swered solemnly. 
 
 "Sun-dogs?" Pete looked at the queer dots 
 of clouds about the sun "What is the meaning 
 of that?" 
 
 "When sun-dog she come they ees al- 
 
226 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 ways much bad storm in mountain. It ees bet 
 ter we stay heer, tree mebbe five day." 
 
 Pete made no comment, but as he ate his 
 frugal supper of corn, dried fish and snow 
 water biscuits, he joined Eliot in many anxious 
 glances at the evening sky. 
 
 Darkness again found them nestling be 
 tween huge boulders, Pete, as always on the 
 outside, sleeping with his right hand firmly 
 gripped about the butt of his long barreled 
 gun. 
 
 As they emerged for breakfast on the fol 
 lowing morning, Pete hastened to survey the 
 sky for signs of the predicted storm. He noted 
 with much relief that the sun was already creep 
 ing slowly over the distant crags, and that, save 
 for a slight wind that came floating over the 
 frozen surface of the snow, there was no ma 
 terial change in the weather from the past four 
 days. 
 
 Breakfast finished, Eliot filled his pipe and 
 remained sitting on the canvas of his pack. 
 
 "Come on, it is already late," Pete grunted, 
 as he prepared his own pack for the day s 
 march. 
 
 "Eliot he ees stay heer sun-dog she 
 warn heem," the breed replied slowly, but with 
 evident finality. 
 
 "Sun-dogs, or no sun-dogs, we re starting," 
 Pete growled in reply, and as he uttered the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 227 
 
 words, he gave his belt a vicious hitch, throw 
 ing the holster of his guns into a more promi 
 nent and accessible position. 
 
 Eliot slowly drew up his shoulders into a 
 long, exasperated shrug, such as only a half- 
 breed could make; a shrug that said more 
 plainly than words: "Go ahead if you are fool 
 enough; but I m staying here." 
 
 Pete was in no humor for an argument. 
 The excessive hard pace of the past few days, 
 coupled with his intense anxiety to know if Eliot 
 had told the truth concerning the fate of Haw 
 kins, caused him to shout short and ugly words 
 at the shrugging breed. 
 
 "You come now, Eliot, or by God you stay 
 here forever." With the words Pete ripped 
 a gun from its holster, and pointing it straight 
 at Eliot s head, continued: 
 
 "Come you move get started we trav 
 el or I travel alone, and you quit traveling for 
 good." 
 
 With a sullen and murderous look Eliot 
 slowly got to his feet and rolled his pack. A 
 few minutes later the two were once more on 
 the move. 
 
 By noon, the sun was nearly hidden behind 
 a dark grey veil that seemed to form like an 
 other sky as far as the eye could see. The 
 gentle breeze, as though encouraged by the re 
 treat of the sun, now came in strong and yet 
 
228 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 stronger gusts over the bare spots in the un 
 broken snow about them, stopping here and 
 there to send little twists of swirling white be 
 fore it. Pete had seen storms in the mountains 
 before, but never had he been abroad in one 
 of them. On the night he left the Dead Horse 
 Mine there had been a storm; but only an or 
 derly snow fall, compared with the storm that 
 seemed to be gathering about him now. 
 
 More than once he felt pangs of regret at 
 his harsh treatment of Eliot, as the conviction 
 grew that, after all, the breed must have known 
 best. As they forged silently ahead, Pete ob 
 served the marked absence of broken rock and 
 boulders. They were passing through the last 
 bit of broken country, it seemed. Out through 
 scrub cedars ahead Pete could see a wide white 
 expanse of snow that stretched away in a 
 smooth and unbroken sheet like the waters of 
 a placid lake. He glanced back and up at 
 where the sun should be; and gave a sigh of 
 relief at what seemed like a break in the clouds. 
 Perhaps the storm would end in snow fall 
 alone, and then pass on. He hesitated a mo 
 ment, and was impressed with the mildness of 
 the temperature. Even the wind had died 
 down. As they passed through the last of the 
 cedars Eliot stopped short and pointed straight 
 ahead of him. There, from behind a clump 
 of trees, came a procession of lean gaunt wol- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 229 
 
 ves, looking neither to the right nor left, and 
 apparently unconcerned at the presence of the 
 men, for they passed within twelve feet of 
 where Pete and Eliot stood; six of them, all 
 hungry-looking beasts as they trailed past with 
 ears flattened against their heads and tongues 
 hanging red and hot from half-open mouths 
 that exposed gleaming white teeth. 
 
 Pete stood stock-still as though bewildered 
 by the strange procession; then Eliot turned to 
 him. 
 
 "Eet ees the warning again. When the 
 wolf she walk like that bad storm come to 
 mountain; eet ees better we queet." 
 
 Pete glanced hurriedly about the scattered 
 cedars. Nothing even approaching a camp site 
 fit for securing a prisoner throughout a storm, 
 could be seen. He looked out across the white 
 expanse ahead and beyond to the jagged out 
 lines of the rugged mountain that bordered the 
 far side of the open expanse. He looked long 
 and carefully before he answered Eliot. That 
 mountain side, not five hours away it seemed, 
 could answer the question that had never left 
 him for months. It would at least tell him if 
 he might again see Brud Hawkins and Tarn 
 alive. 
 
 "No," he fairly shouted, "we go on and 
 on it is only your superstitions!" Then he 
 added as though to apologize for his harshness, 
 
230 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "See, the wind is down and the air seems warm. 
 Keep going, Eliot, straight for that mountain!" 
 As he finished his words, he pointed with his 
 gun to the distant outlines ahead. 
 
 No mercenary ever faced the enemy with 
 greater reluctance than Eliot, who, leaving the 
 scant protection of the cedars, plunged at Pete s 
 fanatical command out into the snow field 
 ahead. 
 
 The icy crust upon which they walked 
 scarcely held their weight, as time after time 
 they floundered helplessly up to their hips in 
 snow before they could gain the frozen surface. 
 Here, too, in the wide open, Pete soon learned 
 that the wind, far from having died down, had 
 only changed its course. Before, it had come 
 in irregular gusts, only occasionally becoming 
 strong enough to stir up the snow; while now 
 it came with steady full force, uninterrupted by 
 trees or boulders. 
 
 Within half an hour after leaving the shel 
 ter, the mercury seemed to drop like magic, 
 and a new kind of cold, one that permeated his 
 very lungs and fairly dried them up, came 
 down with the wind. 
 
 Pete followed the example of Eliot in front 
 and pulled his fur cap well down over his face. 
 He was used to the rigors of winter, but not to 
 this. With the wind came snow. Not from 
 the clouds above, it was too cold for that, only 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 231 
 
 fine drifting snow, gathered in little hard crys 
 tals from the broad expanse about him, whirled 
 with the wind. Little by little the air filled with 
 it, and Pete found it necessary to keep closer 
 and closer to the back of the breed, lest he lose 
 him in the dense flurry. Eliot did his work well 
 and with head bent over, face almost to the 
 snow at his feet, he kept doggedly at it. Pete 
 knew by the continued stinging of wind on his 
 right cheek that their direction was true, al 
 though it was impossible, even between blasts 
 of wind, to see more than a dozen feet ahead. 
 
 Gritting his teeth with determination, Pete 
 followed doggedly behind the breed, straining 
 under the double task of keeping directly be 
 hind him and balancing himself from being 
 swept over from the force of the wind against 
 his double burden of packs. For hours, it 
 seemed, they fought thus until at length a sick 
 ening feeling in his heart and lungs warned 
 Pete of the terrible strain he was under. 
 Phlegm, hot and stringy, came from his throat 
 and seemed to choke him as desperately he tried 
 to keep up with Eliot. But the mad struggle 
 weakened the breed quickly and even as Pete 
 struggled to keep up, he saw Eliot, like a fan 
 tastic white curve, waver in his tracks and fall 
 to the snow. A moment there, and he once 
 more struggled to his feet, and staggered on. 
 
 Their faces no longer registered the direc- 
 
232 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 tion of the wind, and only the law of nature 
 that causes man in his extremity to follow the 
 course of least resistance, guided them now. 
 Even in his thumping brain, Pete knew that 
 this meant wandering far from their true 
 course, for wind at their backs would send them 
 straight along the frozen plain, and not across 
 it. Yet resistance was useless; even his iron 
 determination could not force his body against 
 such terrible odds. 
 
 Eliot was fast weakening, and time after 
 time he literally swooned against the body of 
 Pete, who came directly back of him. Slowly 
 Pete realized that further progress with the 
 two packs on his back would be impossible. 
 The thought of releasing them seemed 
 strangely pleasant and he loosed them to the 
 mercy of the ravaging wind and snow. The 
 relief thus afforded strengthened him to a re 
 newed effort, and for fully an hour he kept on, 
 huddled close to Eliot. At the end of an 
 hour, however, his heart, already swollen 
 with much violent pounding, until it seemed to 
 be the only burden his weary legs supported, 
 sank in hopelessness as Eliot stumbled heavily 
 forward, and lay quietly in the snow. Pete 
 leaned over him, and as he did so, his feet 
 bumped into the obstruction that had tripped 
 the breed. With a faint curiosity, more an ex 
 cuse for letting up for a moment, perhaps, he 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 233 
 
 bent over, as though to see what it was that 
 lay there, hidden in the blinding wind and snow. 
 As he did so he caught a glimpse of brown 
 canvas, just a corner, freed of snow for an 
 instant. That instant was enough, for Pete 
 recognized the packs he had released more than 
 an hour before ! Then, with the sickening real 
 ization that they had indeed been traveling in a 
 circle, he, too, for a moment lost courage and 
 sank down beside the prostrate form of Eliot. 
 But only for a moment. The physical man was 
 nearly spent and now the inner being the in 
 tangible something, that brings dreams of dan 
 ger even to sleeping children spoke to him. 
 
 "Don t quit! Don t quit! You will die if 
 you stop! Keep trying! Get up!" it shouted. 
 
 Pete felt his body moving again. Automat 
 ically he struggled to raise Eliot. Violently as 
 possible, he slapped him in the face, and kicked 
 at his body. A minute longer, and he would 
 have been too late. But Eliot, too, it seemed, 
 was to struggle awhile longer before giv 
 ing up to the impelling lure of sleep. Slowly 
 he staggered to his knees, then to his feet, and 
 the two started again on their wavering course 
 along the path of the blizzard, each, it seemed, 
 leaning on the other. It was well that such was 
 the case, for when Pete would sag and bend 
 toward the snow, Eliot would support him, 
 
234 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 and when Eliot would seem to surrender once 
 again, Pete would be the supporting one. 
 
 Thus they continued their desperate fight 
 until Pete at length was no longer conscious of 
 his effort. He seemed to be obeying only the 
 voice within. It kept urging him on and on, 
 its loud shouting seeming to rise even above 
 yet another voice that counseled rest; sweet 
 peaceful slumber, where all was warm and 
 beautiful. The first voice seemed harsh and 
 commanding and hurt him with its shout 
 ings; the second one, mild and soft yet tender 
 beyond words! Thus the dual fight within 
 raged on, while the men continued their dog 
 ged, grim fight. Eliot answered the lure of 
 the tempter first and fell heavily to the snow, 
 going limp as he sank like a man shot through 
 the heart. He had swooned many times be 
 fore, but this time, Pete knew even in his delir 
 ious brain that the end was near for the breed. 
 
 Perhaps the thought that he was responsi 
 ble, something at least, inspired a last frantic 
 effort that spurred Pete on to grasp the arm of 
 the fallen man, and make a final effort to drag 
 him along. 
 
 As he did so the loud voice within seemed 
 to leave him, and to take a position just 
 ahead; yes, even the other voice had gone out, 
 and both seemed to call him on through the 
 murdering cold of the icy blasts. In answer to 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 235 
 
 them he tugged with all his feeble strength ; the 
 body moved, and he tugged again. The body 
 came ever closer, as foot by foot he worked, 
 struggling only to bring his burden to the danc 
 ing voices that promised sleep and rest. He 
 was coming closer and closer! And as he 
 tugged, it seemed his breath stayed with him 
 longer, even the blinding snow grew fainter, 
 and he feared in a dazed way that he was asleep 
 already! But, no! The voices were still ahead, 
 and he tugged once more. A few more frantic 
 pulls and something at his back held him fast. 
 The wind seemed suddenly far away! With 
 great effort he turned his head, and as he did so 
 his face brushed against sharp branches. Then 
 he let his burden drop and raised his hands. A 
 tree ! He was among trees ! He could sleep ! 
 Ah sweet, sweet sleep! Then, the sudden 
 absence of sense deadening wind cleared his 
 brain for a fleeting moment. He was cold 
 horribly cold, and he must have a fire ! 
 Mechanically he streched out his arms, and felt 
 his numbed hands come in contact with branches 
 that resisted stubbornly. Leaning heavily upon 
 them he felt them give, and heard the riflecrack 
 that he had come to know so well the sound 
 of cold dry branches breaking and splintering 
 beneath his weight. Like a man in a dream he 
 gathered up the splinters and broken branches 
 from the frozen snow and added others to the 
 
236 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 pile. A moment more and he was fumbling 
 feebly at the match box that hung from his 
 belt. But time and again, as he tried to open 
 it, he failed. At last with a desperate effort 
 he placed it between his teeth. The frozen 
 steel box seemed to burn his lips and tongue, 
 before at last it opened. All but one of the 
 precious matches he dropped, as he shook the 
 full box into his gloved hand. Grasping the 
 remaining stick as best he could in both hands, 
 he struck it against the side of a split branch, 
 and watched as though in a dream the tiny red 
 flame lick into the resinous splinters of the piled 
 wood before him. 
 
 As the flames leaped higher and higher they 
 spread into the unbroken branches of the clump 
 of scrub trees about, and soon a raging fire 
 sent its flames high into the branches overhead 
 and ate hungrily into the snow beneath. For a 
 time it seemed that Pete would still lose the 
 reward of his mighty efforts, for as the fire 
 roared there before him, he swayed back and 
 forth, now toward it, now out from it, as 
 though to give up the fight, and seek the peace 
 ful slumber that had lured him on. But as the 
 warmth increased to severe heat, his deadened 
 senses seemed to melt, and he faintly realized 
 that the man lying beside him was slowly but 
 surely sleeping the sleep of death. Roused to 
 action by the thought, he dragged the breed 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 237 
 
 near the fire, hoping the pain of thawing flesh 
 would waken him. 
 
 The effort to revive the half frozen Eliot 
 increased his own circulation, and soon he was 
 able to gather armfuls of brittle branches from 
 trees about him, and add them to the roaring 
 fire, which now had melted a huge hole, nearly 
 to the frozen ground beneath the snow. Into 
 this sheltered pocket Pete drew the breed, rub 
 bing his face and hands with snow, and rolling 
 him as roughly as his weakened state would 
 permit, about the floor of the shelter. Outside, 
 and only a dozen feet or more from him, the 
 blizzard still raged in all its fury; but he had 
 no mind or thought for the course or direction 
 of the storm, nor for the providence of nature 
 that had so miraculously brought him to this 
 haven of shelter among stunted trees that clus 
 tered about a pile of jutting rocks and boulders. 
 
 At length Eliot opened his eyes and 
 groaned in pain as the heat increased in the 
 narrow hole, and sent warm blood against 
 frozen flesh. Pete, overcome by the superhu 
 man efforts of his fight against the wild bliz 
 zard, staggered heavily over the slowly reviv 
 ing Eliot, and slept. 
 
 How long into the night he had slept, he 
 knew not, when suddenly the sting of flame 
 against the flesh of his hand aroused him. The 
 fire had crept into the pile of branches he had 
 
238 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 failed to throw onto the burning heap, and a 
 moment more would have seen not only his 
 gloved hand, but the fur of his coat as well, a 
 mass of flames. 
 
 Eliot was still sleeping when Pete awoke, 
 his troubled breathing indicating that he suf 
 fered intensely even as he slept; and Pete did 
 not disturb him. 
 
 The storm without had apparently died 
 down, and as Pete looked about he tried to get 
 an impression that would help him locate his 
 refuge in the country he remembered. His eyes 
 were swollen, and icicles still hung like crystals 
 from his brows. At first he could see nothing 
 in the semi-darkness as he struggled painfully 
 to his feet, brushed the obstructions from be 
 fore his eyes, and stared fixedly out into the 
 milky white night. 
 
 Something far out before him caused him 
 to start and again brush his eyes. A light, it 
 seemed, was shining somewhere out in the great 
 expanse before him. He watched it breath 
 lessly, as he gradually recalled the significance 
 of a light. Ah, it moved! He counted the 
 swings two four six they had no mean 
 ing there were too many of them. Then a 
 sudden thought struck him and set him to gath 
 ering a handful of the broken branches from 
 beneath his feet. He bundled them into a 
 torch, stuck them for a moment into the blazing 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 239 
 
 fire and crawled laboriously out of the pit. 
 Raising his flaming torch on high he waved it 
 back and forth in a great arc, and watched 
 breathlessly for the answer. The light, wher 
 ever it was, stopped in the middle of a swing, as 
 Pete commenced his own waving, and for a 
 moment the mysterious light disappeared 
 entirely. Then Pete lowered his torch in front 
 of him, and tried desperately to recall the signal 
 code he had received from Tarn. At last 
 it came to him and with slow, wide swings he 
 sent the message : "Come to the light." 
 
 Instantly the other light came into sight 
 again, moved rapidly straight up and down, and 
 faded from view. Forgetting for a moment 
 the intense pain of his frost-bitten limbs, Pete 
 hobbled back into the pit, threw arms full of 
 wood on the fire, and waited. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A S the heavy grey blanket of early morning 
 ** thinned and melted into the cold glim 
 mering white of day, Pete gathered more wood 
 from the thickets about him, and once more 
 ministered to the agonized Eliot. The fitful 
 slumber into which the breed had fallen lasted 
 only until the more urgent demands of nature 
 had been satisfied, then it gave way to pangs of 
 excruciating pain as Pete rubbed snow with all 
 the vigor his own exhausted muscles would per 
 mit. At first the entire right arm and leg of 
 the breed seemed done for; but as Pete ob 
 served the pain increase in intensity as he rub 
 bed, he began to hope that the limbs might yet 
 be saved. 
 
 So ardently did he set to his work, that 
 nearly an hour elapsed before he renewed the 
 vigil he had been keeping on the white expanse 
 of snow that stretched away in the direction 
 from which he had seen the light in the early 
 morning darkness. 
 
 Now, with the sudden realization that his 
 quest for Hawkins and Tarn might soon be 
 ended, he made once more for the surface of 
 the snow, and peered anxiously about. His 
 eyes were still swollen and dim; but as he took 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 241 
 
 in the country about him, he at length discov 
 ered that he and Eliot had indeed traveled 
 through the blizzard in a great circle, finally re 
 turning to the very edge of the rough mountain 
 side from which Eliot had been so reluctant to 
 move. They were perhaps two miles below 
 the spot where the wolves had passed them, 
 Pete guessed, as he strained his burning tear- 
 smeared eyes for some indication of the com 
 ing of the messengers he knew must be on the 
 way. 
 
 Faintly, as though looking through a mist, 
 he distinguished objects moving in the far dis 
 tance. Closer and closer they came, but yet 
 he could not describe them. For fully half an 
 hour he stood there with his gloved hand shad 
 ing his eyes against the snow-glare which was 
 already assuming painful proportions as the 
 sun mounted higher and higher in the wintry 
 sky. Time after time he brushed the mist of icy 
 tears from his streaming eyes until they were 
 sore and raw from the rubbing. At last he 
 made out the distant forms of two men that 
 loomed suddenly large and vigorous against 
 the white background of snow. Now and again 
 as he followed their course they would seem 
 to be lost behind great hummocks and billows 
 of drifted snow, while in the clear spaces they 
 glided in long graceful swing as though on run 
 ners. As they approached he made out the out- 
 
242 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 lines of a long and narrow sleigh that trailed 
 behind them. 
 
 As Pete watched the approach of the men 
 they seemed, on coming close, to slacken their 
 pace and gaze uncertainly along the fringe of 
 cedar and rock, as though not sure which way 
 to go. Seeing their evident confusion, Pete 
 started for the open, hoping to find a vantage 
 point, from which he could signal. As he tried 
 to walk, his limbs refused to obey and seemed 
 to hang like lead to his body. Determinedly 
 he dragged them after him, half crawling and 
 half walking to the point he selected, not fif 
 teen feet away. At length he reached the spot, 
 and with great difficulty waved his arms and 
 opened his mouth to shout a welcome. But 
 his lips were swollen and clumsy and even his 
 tongue seemed to forget how to form the 
 words he would say. With another brace of his 
 feet, as he made to wave his hands, the crust 
 of snow beneath gave away and he floundered 
 up to his arm pits in the fine frozen snow be 
 neath. 
 
 Vainly Pete tried to clamber out of the 
 snow, but it was no use. He could only wait 
 now for the coming of the rescuers who seemed 
 still to hesitate on their way. He worked his 
 body about, and looked back at the pit in which 
 the smouldering fire must still be burning. As 
 he looked, he observed a thin line of pale blue 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 243 
 
 smoke rise above the level of the snow, as 
 though new dry wood had been added to the 
 hot coals. Seeing this, the signal he himself 
 should have thought of sending, he gave up his 
 efforts to regain the frozen surface of snow, 
 and watched the approaching men who had ap 
 parently seen the smoke, and were now hurrying 
 directly toward him. 
 
 Scarcely an hour elapsed before he heard 
 the swish of snow-shoes and the strong voices 
 of men talking. A moment later he was look 
 ing up into the face of Brud Hawkins. For a 
 moment the mountaineer stood there, plainly 
 puzzled at what he saw. Pete s long bushy 
 hair falling in snarled masses from beneath his 
 fur cap, together with the white mantle of fro 
 zen beard, made a mask through which no one 
 could have recognized the clean-cut features of 
 Peter Alden, as Hawkins remembered him. 
 
 "Who are you, man?" the latter shouted. 
 "My God, you re frozen! Here, Bannerie, 
 let s get him out!" 
 
 Hawkins, assisted by his companion, 
 grasped Pete s outstretched arms and after 
 much effort got him to the solid surface of the 
 snow again. 
 
 Once on his feet, Peter threw his arms 
 slowly about Hawkins, and muttered: "Alden, 
 I m Alden thank God I find you 
 alive." 
 
244 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 From the scene that followed it would be 
 difficult to tell which of the two men was the 
 rescuer and which the rescued. Long and fer 
 vently they shook hands, patted each other on 
 the shoulders, and tried to talk. But Pete could 
 say little, and from sheer emotion, Hawkins 
 could do no better. 
 
 At length, the first greetings over, Haw 
 kins and his friend, who appeared to Pete s 
 misty eyes, to be also a half-breed though a 
 man much larger and with finer features than 
 those possessed by either Eliot or his brother, 
 Pierre succeeded in getting both the badly 
 frozen Eliot and himself upon the long narrow 
 sleigh they had brought with them, and with 
 powerful sweeping strides, made once more 
 across the broad expanse of snow. First Haw 
 kins and then Bannerie would pull at the raw 
 hide rope that held the sleigh as they sped 
 along, but more often it was necessary only to 
 give it an occasional tug, so easily did it glide 
 over the frozen surface. 
 
 What would have been a half day s journey 
 for Pete and Eliot, Hawkins and his companion 
 now completed in less than half that time ; and 
 before Pete could realize the distance traveled 
 he observed the presence of boulders, stunted 
 trees, and the sharp slope of a hill that in 
 dicated the approaching end of the journey. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 245 
 
 A little later Pete answered the voice that 
 had counseled sweet sleep only a few hours 
 before. But now there was no disturbing com 
 mand that racked his very brain and tormented 
 him to further effort. Instead, he slept, long 
 and soundly, turning his weary, aching body un 
 consciously as though it wished to make certain 
 that it was indeed once more resting on a soft 
 warm mattress. 
 
 His eyes for weeks past had been accus 
 tomed, on awakening, to look out upon early 
 morning in all its radiant glory, and always 
 the grandeur of it had thrilled him. Now, 
 as he opened his eyes after long hours of sleep, 
 his gaze rested upon the masterpiece itself of 
 the handiwork of God full upon the face of 
 a beautiful woman, bending tenderly over him, 
 administering the while warm fragrant oil to 
 the crusted skin beneath his shaggy beard. 
 
 During his sleep his lips had returned to 
 something resembling their normal shape, and 
 he found he could mutter words, as he ex 
 claimed : "Tarn you, too here ! Thank God ! 
 Both of you Hawkins and Tarn!" 
 
 "Yes Mr. Alden," Tarn replied, "we are 
 both here and your patient is much better than 
 his doctor aren t you, Mr. Hawkins?" 
 
 Hawkins was there, sitting on the edge of 
 the bed, and could speak for himself. But be 
 fore he could utter a word, Pete replied: 
 
246 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "No wonder with such a nurse!" Then 
 he stopped short as he noticed the slight frown 
 and troubled look that came over the face of 
 the girl, as she gathered her bottles and linen 
 from the bed. For a moment she seemed un 
 decided whether to carry them from the room, 
 or to remain. She hesitated only a moment 
 however, and then called a French name which 
 Pete could not understand. 
 
 The object of the call soon appeared in the 
 low doorway that separated the "lean-to" or 
 built-on bedroom from the rest of the cabin. 
 
 "Here, Marie, please take these out, and see 
 what you can do for Jacques Eliot. He seems 
 to be suffering very much," Tarn directed, as 
 the woman approached. 
 
 "Now, Pete," Hawkins began, "when you 
 are ready, tell me how you feel what you 
 have done how it has all happened. My 
 God! If you could see yourself. Tarn, for 
 heaven s sake bring old Dannie s mirror." He 
 finished with an amused twinkle in his eye. 
 
 Pete s eyes followed the girl across the 
 room as she went for the mirror. He thought 
 there was a twinkle in her eyes also as she held 
 it before him, and he looked intently as though 
 to make certain. 
 
 "The mirror, man look in the mirror," 
 Hawkins broke in, his good natured old face 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 247 
 
 Caught in the pardonable act of staring 
 at the first girl he had seen in months, Pete 
 grasped the mirror in confusion, and then 
 gazed at what he saw much like a frightened 
 child watching the antics of a suspended spider. 
 
 The image in the mirror brought him to 
 a sitting posture with a jerk a jerk that only 
 accentuated the distorted vision he beheld in 
 the glass. Hair, great masses of it, made his 
 head and face seem three times the size he re 
 membered it to be. Little red gimlets where his 
 eyes should be looked out of shaggy holes in 
 the woolly mass ; wherever he could see skin, it 
 seemed red and crusted, or black from its recent 
 frost bite. For a moment he was held speech 
 less by the spectacle. Then pushing the glass 
 violently from him, he said to Hawkins : 
 
 "For a long while I ve been thinking the 
 most important thing in the world was to 
 save you, the Dead Horse Mine, and" he 
 seemed about to include Tarn, when an expres 
 sion on her baffling face stopped him "and 
 so-on," he continued, "but now, I know the 
 most important thing in the world is to get to 
 a barber shop and a bath tub. Great Moses! 
 There isn t a barber shop in the world that 
 would let me through the door ! Do you sup 
 pose that fellow at the store in Moapa has 
 saved my togs?" 
 
 Tarn smiled faintly, perhaps a little wist- 
 
248 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 fully, while Hawkins in spite of his worried 
 face, laughed at Pete s consternation. 
 
 "Well," Hawkins finally found breath 
 enough to remark, "you re a mighty lucky 
 young man that you aren t in the fix of your 
 traveling mate, Eliot, in there. How in the 
 world that breed up and gets caught in a bliz 
 zard, and you don t, beats me." 
 
 "And I don t?" Pete stormed, "and I 
 don t? I m half frozen right now. We 
 were together all the time." 
 
 "Ah, yes, so you were. But you kept mov 
 ing. Two days here and your frost bites will 
 be gone. The breed in there will be on his 
 back for a month. But come, tell me I m 
 dying to know how " 
 
 "Dinner first, Mr. Hawkins," Tarn admon 
 ished, "let the poor man eat. He must be 
 starved; aren t you, Mr. Alden?" 
 
 "Quite," agreed Pete. "And anyhow, it s 
 you folks story first, then mine." 
 
 Susie summoned the woman again, and this 
 time took from her a steaming bowl of broth, 
 a huge tin plate of what looked to Pete like the 
 finest roast meat he had ever seen, and several 
 other steaming dishes that filled the room with 
 the stimulating odor of a savory meal. 
 
 As Pete ate, Hawkins entered into his story. 
 
 "Well," he began, "guess you know how 
 things stood when they packed me into that 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 249 
 
 low wagon box on runners. For the life of me 
 I couldn t and can t yet see why they wanted 
 to do away with me. Thought at first they 
 wanted the Dead Horse knew they did in 
 fact, from the way their lawyer and Demons 
 had been hounding me. But that didn t explain 
 why that gangster fellow, Buller Garret, got 
 so poison mad at me. Later on I found out he 
 was in love with Susie, here." At this Susie 
 blushed violently and made as if to carry out 
 some of Pete s discarded dishes. Hawkins, 
 however, seemingly unaware of the embarrass 
 ment caused the girl, continued: "And he got 
 it into his head that I was digging up his past 
 in order to get something or other on the Gold 
 Company. Well, he was mighty worried lest 
 I might tell Tarn here, and then he seemed to be 
 working under orders from Houston, too. But 
 it was Susie here that saved me, after all that 
 is Susie and your whopping big yarn about the 
 fifty thousand. Whew!" 
 
 Hawkins paused in his story to take a long 
 breath, then, placing his hand to his forehead, 
 he continued: "What a blessing and a curse 
 money is, Pete. It saved my life this time, 
 though, for your frozen friend in there," point 
 ing a thumb over his shoulder to where Slim 
 Eliot was lying, "made a bargain with Tam 
 bless her heart to spare me if I would tell 
 where it was the fifty thousand, that s about 
 
250 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 all, isn t it, Susie? Anyhow, that s how we hap 
 pened to be hidden away up here. Yes," he 
 continued brokenly, "that s all " 
 
 "Of course, it is not, Mr. Hawkins; go on 
 and tell the rest. You know it isn t all" Tarn 
 hesitated for a moment, then continued, as 
 though weighing every word, "Mr. Alden has 
 a right to know." 
 
 "Well," Hawkins hesitated "you see I 
 know, that is, we knew that you weren t dead; 
 but might be anytime. Then I knew that it was 
 only a matter of time until I would be found 
 out. So," at this point the old man, visibly af 
 fected, turned his head to one side as though 
 to hide his emotion as he forced the final words 
 out, "I I made a bargain for you and 
 and for all of us. I I signed a quit-claim 
 deed to the Dead Horse Mine. It wasn t much, 
 after all I" 
 
 "You what?" Pete shouted, as the full sig 
 nificance of the words came to him. "You 
 what? You signed a deed?" His hands sought 
 the shoulders of the miner as he lowered his 
 voice almost to a sob, "Tell me you didn t." 
 
 Susie and Hawkins gaped in wide-eyed 
 astonishment at the frenzy that overcame Pete 
 as he fairly sobbed out the last words and 
 continued muttering: "What have you done? 
 My God, what have you done?" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 251 
 
 "But why what is the matter what have 
 I done?" Hawkins finally gulped out, aware 
 that he must have done something far worse 
 than he himself imagined. 
 
 Before he answered, Pete looked intently 
 from Hawkins to Susie, and choked back the 
 rush of words that came welling up from his 
 sorely troubled heart. Should he tell them, 
 he asked himself? After all, wouldn t it be 
 better to let them find out their grave mistake, 
 and let them take the blow when circumstances 
 lessened its sting? He sank back dejectedly on 
 his pillow, and said no more. All his efforts 
 in vain! All of his fight, fought for nothing! 
 He sighed deeply as though resigned to his fate, 
 and suppressed with difficulty the bitter tears 
 that flooded his eyes and bade Hawkins 
 continue. 
 
 The old miner, suspecting that Pete was 
 withholding knowledge that held for him 
 something worse than the pangs of regret he 
 had already experienced, continued in a broken 
 voice : 
 
 "She," pointing to Susie, "found out 
 that you were in their hands, that you were at 
 the mine. They told her that you would be 
 killed, buried in the tunnel unless I sold the 
 property to them, and that I would never come 
 out of the winter alive. And so I did it 
 didn t we, Susie?" Poor Hawkins struggled 
 
252 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 hard to shoulder all of the blame on himself, 
 but in spite of his efforts, his actions told more 
 eloquently than words, that he had but yielded 
 to the pleadings of the girl of Tamarack Sue 
 who sat while Hawkins talked, with her head 
 bowed, hot tears streaming down her tender 
 cheeks. 
 
 Pete looked from one to the other, not 
 knowing what to do, or say. His voice choked 
 as his eyes met hers. 
 
 "Tarn Susie why did you do it?" he 
 finally asked. 
 
 Susie hesitated and looked for guidance to 
 Hawkins. The mountaineer slowly shook his 
 head in silent approval of the question she 
 seemed to ask. Slowly she left her seat, and 
 walked to the room beyond. As the door closed 
 silently behind her, Hawkins leaned close to 
 Pete s head and whispered: 
 
 "Don t be too hard on her, boy she had 
 a father once, just as you have now. She buried 
 him under the tamaracks, and " he quickly 
 straightened up, as Susie returned silently 
 through the door, carrying a letter in her hands. 
 She walked steadily to the bedside and looked 
 unfalteringly into Pete s eyes and said: 
 
 "Yes I alone caused Mr. Hawkins to sign 
 the deed. You asked me why, well, here is the 
 only reason." So saying she handed Pete the 
 letter. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 253 
 
 Long before he had finished reading the 
 first page, his eyes dimmed, and he could read 
 no more. "Read it to me please," he pleaded, 
 as he handed it to the girl. "Read it." 
 
 It was a message from Judge Stivers. A 
 masterful story of most of Pete s dramatic life; 
 it described how he had been the sole joy and 
 comfort of a father bereaved by the death of 
 the boy s mother, death caused by his very birth 
 in fact, and how the boy had been spoiled by 
 riches and ill-directed love, until he had lost 
 direction, it seemed, and knew not how to live. 
 The letter was sad, and even Peter, who knew 
 the story so well, was deeply touched by it. 
 Page after page, written as only a master law 
 yer pleading for a life could write, followed. 
 
 Then a paragraph, stating that the letter 
 was a "shot in the dark," the result only of a 
 half hope that the reader might find a way in 
 which it could be used to influence those who 
 held Pete in their mercy, closed the message. 
 
 As Tarn finished reading she handed the 
 sheets to Pete. He looked long and searchingly 
 at the signature, and as he did so the brow be 
 neath his hair contracted. 
 
 For a moment the three heads bowed in 
 silence, Pete felt the old tug and torment of his 
 conscience within. This man, Hawkins, almost 
 a stranger to him, had given up his all his 
 mine but more, much more than that his 
 
254 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 fight against the Salmon River Gold Company, 
 just to save him ! And this girl, who read the 
 letter with tears in her eyes, had pleaded for 
 him! 
 
 The thought came crashing home to him 
 that after all, he alone had done nothing worthy 
 neither of the old love of his father, nor of 
 the sacrifice of these noble people beside him. 
 The thought of his gigantic failure fairly sick 
 ened him, and he groaned aloud in agony. 
 
 "And so," Hawkins concluded, "yesterday 
 I signed the deed, and in four days I was to 
 join you in Moapa." 
 
 A sudden hope started Pete from his utter 
 dejection. "Signed yesterday?" he asked 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "Yes," answered Hawkins, "Tarn here, 
 has been carrying on secret negotiations with 
 Buller. He told her you were still at the Mine, 
 and just before the blizzard, he sent a mes 
 senger to the peak yonder," Pete, too interested 
 in the words, paid no attention to the directions, 
 but waited breathlessly for Hawkins to con 
 tinue, "and she gave him the signed papers. 
 He is to take them to the mine where the 
 first shipment of ore goes out to-morrow." As 
 these words passed the lips of the old man, it 
 seemed he would break into tears. At length 
 he continued: "All the officials are to be there, 
 he says Browning and all. He says they are 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 255 
 
 there for a bluff, they have no pay ore, they 
 claim to be just working the place for me, but 
 I am not so sure." 
 
 Pete s hands twitched nervously as he lis 
 tened impatiently to the words. 
 
 "But now," Hawkins continued, bracing 
 himself, "for heaven s sake, what brings you 
 here? Buller s messenger said only yesterday 
 you were still at the mine." As Hawkins fin 
 ished the question he looked intently at Pete, 
 who seemed not to hear the words at all. 
 
 "For God s sake, quick," he shouted as 
 though waking from a dream, "where are we 
 now? Where are we? Where is the mine?" 
 He trembled with excitement, as he ignored 
 Hawkins further questioning, and grasped him 
 violently by the arm as though to shake the 
 answer from him. 
 
 "Just eight miles down the mountains 
 there " Hawkins pointed off down great 
 slopes of rolling mountains. "But the trail is 
 twenty miles long that could bring anyone here, 
 they must come the back way. You must be 
 lost where have you been?" 
 
 With swollen red eyes blazing like coals 
 Pete sprang from the bed, his frost-bitten limbs 
 snapping into action in spite of the terrible 
 abuse they had suffered. Hawkins made a rush 
 to restrain him and his frantic effort, but Pete 
 continued rushing about the room, gathering 
 
256 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 boots, fur cap, coat, guns and whatever else he 
 could find that might serve him on the trail. 
 
 "Now, food a blanket or two and be 
 quick, for God s sake, be quick!" he shouted. 
 "They ve lied to you! They have lied to you! 
 Your mine is worth millions, man and they 
 are stealing it! The letter is a forgery. The 
 dirty yellow dogs ! Tarn Susie, I mean send 
 someone the man out there, anyone to Moapa 
 and wire Judge Stivers to come. Hurry, Haw 
 kins, a pack and food! Hurry, for heaven s 
 sake!" 
 
 "But I ve already written him to come," 
 Tarn started to say. "Three weeks ago, when 
 I got the letters, I wrote him all about " 
 
 "But it s twenty miles, man you will die 
 on the trail," Hawkins broke in, both he and 
 Susie raising their voices at once. But Pete 
 heard neither, as he buckled on his belt and 
 glared out upon the trail. 
 
 "Quick, Hawkins!" he ordered savagely, 
 "food and blankets, or I go as I am!" 
 
 Hawkins saw the desperate earnestness of 
 the frantic Pete, and made haste to get what 
 he could together for the trip. 
 
 Scarcely thirty minutes from the reading 
 of the letter, Pete found himself once more 
 ready for the trail. In his rush he paused on 
 the door sill long enough only to shout final 
 instructions, and a hurried good-bye. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 257 
 
 "Stay here until you see my signal lights. 
 Hold out with guns against all hell till I signal," 
 he cried as he quickly hurled his light pack to his 
 back, grasped a pair of snow shoes under his 
 arm things he had never used and then, 
 with a fling of his right hand high in the air, 
 made off directly away from the gentle slopes 
 that meant twenty miles of slow, easy travel, 
 and plunged over the frozen snow for the jag 
 ged steep peril that separated him from the 
 Dead Horse Mine only eight miles away. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 I A HE sun was already dipping into a bed of 
 * amber fleeced clouds, when Pete began his 
 mad rush down the mountain side. He had 
 hardly passed over the ridge beyond the view 
 of anxious eyes from the trapper s cabin that 
 had served so well as a refuge for Hawkins 
 and Tarn, when he was brought to a sharp reali 
 zation of the desperateness of his undertaking. 
 Almost with his first steps his feet slipped out 
 from under him, and only by jabbing the point 
 ed ends of his snow shoes into the frozen crust 
 over which he slid, was he able to check the 
 speed of his descent. Never entirely regaining 
 a standing position, he half ran, half slid, and 
 finally rolled to the first narrow strip of level 
 ground, far down the steep incline from his 
 starting point. 
 
 The force of his landing sent him deep into 
 the drift, and only by surrendering his snow 
 shoes, was he finally able to emerge, and start 
 again. 
 
 As he descended lower and lower into 
 the valley, the darkness increased in intensity, 
 and not even the shadows of twilight came to 
 aid him in adjusting himself to the intense 
 blackness below. Time after time he butted 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 259 
 
 full into projecting rocks sometimes falling 
 over precipitous places and plunging through 
 air, not knowing if he would fall on splinters 
 of rocks far below, or alight again on soft snow 
 close beneath him. 
 
 Hazardous as was the rapid descent, he at 
 least felt himself moving toward his goal. It 
 was when he encountered the adverse slopes or 
 bulges of small ridges that rose against him, 
 that he found progress bitterly slow. Time and 
 again he would come upon these obstructions, 
 seem to reach the summit, then lose his grip 
 and roll helplessly to the bottom. Or if his 
 progress up such slopes was steady and long 
 continued, he would be seized with a panic 
 lest he had reversed his course in the darkness 
 and was making back over the steep incline of 
 the mountain which he had descended. Each 
 time, however, he finally dipped over the minia 
 ture summit, and started once more down the 
 precipitous side of the main mountain. 
 
 For an hour he traveled thus, coming al 
 ways closer and closer to the bottom of the 
 gulch below. 
 
 The air seemed heavier as he descended, 
 and when at length he brought up sharp 
 against a protruding boulder, he deliberately 
 paused for the first time, and lay motionless, 
 as though suddenly afraid to rush on. Some 
 thing like the feeling he had experienced when 
 
260 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 approaching chasms encountered on hikes in his 
 native mountains of California, seized him now, 
 and even through the inky blackness of night, 
 he could feel the presence of a yawning space 
 before him. 
 
 Instinct, or the guiding hand of fate, some 
 thing at any rate, took from Pete that instant 
 the spirit of reckless abandon that had impell 
 ed him to undertake the mad plunge, and caused 
 him to arise guardedly to his feet, and secure 
 himself behind the spear of granite against 
 which he had fallen. Then straining his eyes 
 to see into the darkness, he cautiously clam 
 bered to the side of his protection, and tried to 
 follow the shadowy outline of snow. It ended 
 abruptly, however, and he could not tell whither 
 it went. As he stood there his hands played 
 over the rough surface of the rock, and he tore 
 off a small loose fragment. This he pitched out 
 before him and listened intently. But he heard 
 not a sound. Perhaps it had fallen in soft snow, 
 he reasoned. He couldn t have heard it, after 
 all! He tried another with the same result. 
 
 Impatient at the baffling something that 
 held him powerless to move, he again called 
 desperately on the resourcefulness that had 
 been his faithful ally in the past. Even as he 
 did so, he thought of a light, if he could only 
 throw a light out there into the mysterious 
 blackness before him. He remembered the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 261 
 
 candles he had crammed into his pocket days be 
 fore, just preceding his entrance into the tunnel 
 of the Dead Horse Mine. Hope, always so 
 ready to join forces with desire, sent his hands 
 rapidly to the pockets of his fur coat. With 
 difficulty he unbuttoned the flaps, and ran his 
 fingers over the collection of articles that re 
 mained. The candles were there but hope 
 lessly broken and moulded together into a paste- 
 like mass against the leather of his coat lining. 
 Undismayed, he drew the mass forth and placed 
 it on the shelf in the rock made by the removal 
 of the first fragments he had thrown into the 
 darkness. Next he unbuttoned his coat, and 
 did as he had seen the half-breed do a week 
 before, cut the tails from his woolen shirt. 
 
 Taking fully a third of the matted candles, 
 he made up a small bundle of wax and wool, 
 placing nearly a dozen leaded cartridges from 
 his belt into the center of it. A moment more 
 and he had it tied securely by means of a portion 
 of lace taken from his boot. Touching a match 
 to the greasy mass he held it long in his gloved 
 hand, until the entire ball seemed a mass of dull 
 red flame. Even in the first flare of the light he 
 looked with horror upon the brink of a sheer 
 cliff before him, and realized that only mi 
 raculous fate in the shape of projecting granite 
 had prevented his mad plunge down, he knew 
 not where. 
 
262 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 An instant more and Pete flung the flaming 
 mass far out before him, and watched it de 
 scend down down until it looked like a 
 meteor in the distance. Helplessly he leaned 
 against the boulder, and watched the ball of 
 fire pass from his view. 
 
 Suddenly there came from the regions below 
 a dull boom, and he knew a cartridge in the 
 burning ball had exploded, as crash after crash 
 followed, all echoes from the lone explosion, 
 making their noisy way out of the gulch. 
 
 During his many quiet days at the Dead 
 Horse Mine, Pete had studied the country 
 about with an interest inspired not by its grand 
 eur alone, but essentially because of a premoni 
 tion that it would be his battleground in times 
 to come. As he listened to the reverberations 
 he tried to fix his location in his mind; to recall 
 the gulch, and determine if possible its location 
 in relation to the mine. 
 
 He hesitated long between staying where he 
 was, and skirting the edge of the slippery cliff 
 for a place to descend; his better judgment ad 
 vised the former, counseled him to spread his 
 blankets and rest until daylight showed him the 
 way. Then came the thought of those behind 
 in the trapper s cabin, and of the scheming ras 
 cals who had snatched victory from his very 
 hands and were already, perhaps, dividing the 
 spoils between them. His thoughts jumped for 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 263 
 
 a moment to San Francisco. What a mess 
 would greet Judge Stivers there! If the Judge 
 had written the letter to Tam, he certainly had 
 not signed it ! The cunningness and trickery of 
 the thing, if the letter was indeed a forgery, 
 but emphasized the efficiency of Houston and 
 his henchmen on the coast, he reasoned, and 
 new anger welled within him, as the possibili 
 ties of defeat at the hands of this same gang 
 loomed. "No," he shouted aloud, "I must 
 keep on! Hours, even minutes are precious!" 
 He knew he could not wait for daylight, and, 
 the very thought of looking from his perch 
 high on the mountain side, looking in all prob 
 ability down upon his enemies traveling through 
 the gulch below, with a deed to the mine, as 
 well as gold from its rich veins, sickened him, 
 and he knew it was now this night or never. 
 He cut more from his woolen shirt, winding 
 the cloth about the remainder of the plastic 
 candle wax, until he had a taper-like torch 
 nearly a foot in length. Lighting this, he 
 grasped it near the flame, to prevent its burning 
 faster than needed, and started hacking holes 
 in the frozen snow along the edge of the cliff. 
 Progress was slow and tedious, as he carefully 
 dug each hole, putting his foot testingly into it 
 to make certain that a foundation had been 
 reached that would bear his weight, before he 
 trusted himself to proceed. 
 
264 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 The waxed wool burned all too rapidly, and 
 its fast disappearing light hastened Pete s ac 
 tivity beyond the point of safety. Yet he rushed 
 on, never faltering, and always muttering to 
 himself meaningless words as though to keep 
 the goddess of fate between him and the cliff. 
 Once, the absurdity of the muttering occurred 
 to him; but he had started it with the first hole, 
 and dared not discontinue it until the end. As 
 he worked his way from hole to hole he felt 
 the compelling pull of the abyss by his side, 
 much, he recalled, as he had felt the silent tug 
 and pull of the tide when swimming at night 
 in the bay at home. As he swam against the 
 tide then, so he shaped his tracks against the 
 pull now, and felt, with increasing hope, its 
 diminishing force as he made his way. At 
 length it seemed to leave him altogether, and 
 he made more boldly for the cliff. With his 
 last two inches of burning wool and candle 
 grease, he crawled to the very edge, and looked 
 for the cause of the relaxing of the pull he had 
 felt so long. His muttering increased almost to 
 a jabber of delight at what he saw: a gradual 
 incline, a place where the cliff jutted off at right 
 angles to itself, it seemed, lay there before him. 
 He could scarcely see more than a dozen feet, 
 yet he took to the slight hope that even this 
 twelve feet might lead him to still another 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 265 
 
 gradual slope, and started once more to de 
 scend. 
 
 It was again all black and uncertain about 
 him, as the last of his smoky red light faded 
 away. With its fading, it became necessary for 
 him to waste precious minutes there on the 
 first few feet of the descent, in order to allow 
 his eyes once more to become accustomed to the 
 blackness about him. Foot by foot he crawled, 
 letting himself slip from one niche to another, 
 trusting to instinct and chance to guide his 
 course aright. 
 
 But his course was no longer interrupted, 
 and even before the darkness gave signs of 
 breaking, he found himself once more on ground 
 he knew, and with savage triumph radiating 
 from his very steps, he hurried along the gulch, 
 toward the Dead Horse Mine, whose lights 
 already seemed to be high up at the very head 
 of the gulch. 
 
 So close were the lights, he could even hear 
 the sound of workmen about them, shouting 
 orders and calling to others as though they 
 were in groups apparently at some distance 
 from each other. Yet he knew the mine must 
 be at least five miles away. As he examined 
 the lights closely he observed that what seemed 
 to be one cluster at first, now appeared sep 
 arated into little groups, ranged one behind the 
 other. Their general appearance puzzled him, 
 
266 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 and he tried to think what they could mean. 
 Even as he watched them, they seemed to move, 
 to come toward him. The shouting of men, 
 too, came down upon him with the lights. 
 Twice he even heard sharp cracks, like the 
 snapping of whips above the sound of voices. 
 Seeking a vantage point by the side of the trail, 
 which in spite of the recent storm, showed 
 plainly its course through the blanket of snow, 
 he waited. 
 
 He had not long to remain there, for soon 
 emerging suddenly before him, the lights as 
 sumed definite proportions, and he made out 
 five heavily laden sleds, hitched together one 
 behind the other. Two horses, also in single 
 file, pulled them. As they came nearer, Pete 
 made out the men; two of them carrying rifles 
 slung loosely in the hollow of their arms, trot 
 ting along in front of the horses, while beside 
 each sled other men hurried along. Behind 
 them all came a group probably four in all, 
 with side arms dangling from their belts. 
 
 The grim significance of the thing came 
 to Pete at once. It was the expected shipment 
 of high grade ore, ore rich in all probability 
 beyond anything that had ever come from the 
 gulch! The moment of triumph that should 
 belong to Hawkins was here passed in the dead 
 of night by vicious thieves, who, under the cover 
 of darkness, hurried their ill-gotten wealth out 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 267 
 
 of the mountains! Pete clenched his fist, and 
 cursed bitterly in the darkness. 
 
 The loud voice of Demons sounded above 
 all the others as he urged men and horses on, 
 and Pete found it necessary to hurry back to 
 the trail and make a hasty retreat in order that 
 he could collect his thoughts and make a plan of 
 action before the ore train left the defiles of the 
 gorge. 
 
 He ran fast, outdistancing the horses and 
 men by fully a hundred yards, before he slack 
 ened his pace to a brisk walk. Suddenly a voice 
 even louder and more commanding than that 
 of Demons sounded from the rear. 
 
 "Halt whoa, Demons come here some 
 one ahead!" it shouted. 
 
 Pete heard the drivers order their animals 
 to a halt, and saw the lights cluster above his 
 tracks in the snow. 
 
 "One coming in, and one going out, same 
 tracks. He s seen us." It was Demons shout 
 ing now. 
 
 Then two lights left the others, and came 
 at a rapid pace toward the spot where Pete 
 stood waiting. 
 
 Putting all the energy he could into the 
 effort, he rushed wildly about making tracks 
 here, there and everywhere, running trails first 
 to one side and then to the other, hoping thus 
 
268 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 to give his trackers the impression that he was 
 not alone. 
 
 Then, whipping his guns from his belt, he 
 fired twelve times up the trail, well over the 
 heads of his pursuers, racing in circles as he did 
 so, causing the jagged flare from his guns to 
 pierce the darkness from as many points as 
 possible. Almost instantly an answering volley 
 came crashing down the gulch from the sleighs. 
 Pete instantly sprang to one side of the trail, 
 crouching low from the screaming lead above 
 him. But even as he did so, he observed the 
 light that led the rest flicker and fall to the 
 snow, and he thought he heard a groan, as 
 though from a man badly hurt. 
 
 The men continued firing in the darkness, 
 first one and then the other shouting commands 
 and challenging each other in utter confusion. 
 Hearing the turmoil Pete made the most of his 
 lone chance, and raced just off the trail di 
 rectly toward the sleds, where the horses 
 reared and plunged in the semi-darkness. 
 Drawing near, he observed two men tugging at 
 the bits, and cursing the horses between shouts 
 to the men ahead. 
 
 Gasping for breath Pete joined the strug 
 gling men and shouted, "Hurry, back to the 
 
 mine! 
 
 In the wild confusion the ruse worked, and 
 the men came near upsetting their precious 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 269 
 
 loads, as they wheeled the prancing, snorting 
 horses about. Pete, crowding close as though 
 to help, watched for his chance, and brought 
 down the butt of his gun with a sickening thud 
 on the head of the nearest teamster. Quickly 
 taking the gun from his limp victim s belt, he 
 crouched between the horses and sprang upon 
 the remaining man. Taken completely un 
 awares, the struggle lasted but a moment, and 
 the man crumpled beside his fallen mate. 
 
 Pete was none too quick; already the men 
 down the trail had ceased their firing, and once 
 more the loud voice of Demons seemed to pre 
 vail upon them. 
 
 With sweeping lashes of the teamster s 
 whip, Pete started the horses on a wild run back 
 toward the Dead Horse Mine. No sooner 
 were they under way, however, than Demons 
 and his gang discovered the stunned teamsters 
 and started in angry pursuit, firing from rifles 
 and guns at the fast-disappearing sled. The 
 ore had been strapped on well, and in spite of 
 the swerving, rolling course of the sled, the 
 heavily loaded sacks held their places and Pete 
 soon swept beyond the danger of flying bullets. 
 He knew by the slope of the trail that he was 
 several miles from the mine. His heart beat in 
 wild exultation as he thought of the precipitous 
 gorge along which the trail ahead skirted, and, 
 as soon as he passed beyond danger of flying 
 
270 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 bullets, he calmed the runaway horses as best he 
 could, and made ready for it. 
 
 Recovered from their early fright, the 
 horses strained evenly at their harness as the 
 first incline was reached. Time and again, 
 Pete found it necessary to ply the whip, as the 
 horses seemed stalled in their tracks; but they 
 made the grade, sticking close to the wall as 
 they picked their way gingerly along. 
 
 Once above the yawning space along which 
 the trail skirted, Pete quickly drew his knife, 
 cut the binding ropes and sent bag after bag of 
 the precious ore crashing down the side of the 
 cliff, where he knew it would be safe until far 
 into the next summer. 
 
 With rapid movements he stripped all the 
 harness except the bridles from the panting 
 horses. Then, giving the long line of sleds 
 a final shove after the ore sacks, he sprang on 
 the back of one of the animals, and leading the 
 other behind, he galloped on toward the mine. 
 
 He knew he was fully an hour in advance of 
 Demons and the men behind, yet he knew not 
 what to expect at the bunk houses above, so he 
 increased his speed to the utmost. 
 
 Dawn was not yet breaking when the lone 
 light on the gable of the main house loomed be 
 fore him. Quietly dismounting, he tied his 
 steaming horses to convenient bushes, hiding 
 them from the trail as best he could. For. a 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 271 
 
 moment he hesitated, to pat the faithful heads 
 of the horses. Precious as time was, he could 
 not continue his fight, until he had first sneaked 
 to the several new buildings he found clustered 
 about the entrance of the tunnel, where for 
 nearly a quarter of an hour he searched, before 
 finally coming onto two bits of old canvas, with 
 which he covered the fast chilling bodies of the 
 horses. 
 
 First he listened intently for sounds of his 
 pursuers. Observing no evidence of life about, 
 he made for the small window of the bunk 
 house he remembered. In the dim light that 
 emanated from the single lantern overhead, he 
 observed that many new bunks had been added 
 to the ones he remembered. One end of the 
 room too had been partitioned off, and he 
 made out a sign on a door in the center of it 
 that might be "Office" or "Private," he could 
 not be sure. 
 
 Pete remembered the words of Hawkins, 
 words that Buller had first spoken to Tarn: 
 
 "The officials will be there to receive the 
 deed," he had said. Why at the mine? he 
 wondered. The more he considered the words, 
 the less he believed them, yet he hoped against 
 hope that Buller had this time spoken the truth, 
 and he hurried around the side of the house and 
 made for the far end of the building. A light 
 there streamed out of a window. He hurried 
 
272 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 on to investigate it, but the foundation of the 
 building rested almost on the edge of the cliff, 
 and he found progress to a spot below the win 
 dow not only slow, but hazardous in the ex 
 treme. Once there, he considered long before 
 determining what his next step would be. He 
 knew he dared not show his face to the light, 
 for once his presence became known, his plan 
 would be spoiled. He heard voices within, but 
 could not make out the meaning of the low 
 spoken words. With his naked finger he traced 
 the cracks between the boards that formed the 
 end of the building. Selecting the widest one, 
 he drew his heavy clasp knife, and worked the 
 point of the blade slowly between the boards. 
 Gradually he sliced splinter after splinter, until 
 the pent up light from within came out in a 
 stream fully a quarter of an inch wide. Then, 
 lying prone on the snow, he placed his ear to the 
 opening and listened. Browning was there ! 
 And at the sound of his voice, Pete felt a rush 
 of blood to his head that threatened to drown 
 out his hearing; the distinct note of triumph in 
 the voice angered him to the point of despera 
 tion. 
 
 "And Sharpe s there to receive it," Brown 
 ing was saying. 
 
 u Tell me again, Ern, how much do you 
 think that stuff is worth?" 
 
 "Don t know," Houston grunted. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 273 
 
 "Oh, come, Ern, can t you be cheerful for 
 a minute?" Browning urged. "You re the 
 damnedest man I ever knew, Ern; here you ve 
 won; got the deed; we ve got the gold, six 
 sled loads of it, and I m hanged if you ve said 
 fifty words all night." 
 
 If Pete could have seen the pleased gleam in 
 Silent Ern s eyes as he gloated over his victory, 
 he would have understood that Browning was 
 merely trying again to force the lawyer into 
 a new way of expressing himself, and that his 
 words were not a true measure of the lawyer s 
 state of mind. 
 
 At Browning s words, Houston did seem to 
 brighten up, however, as he replied: "Well, 
 Demons says there s millions where these loads 
 came from. Probably quarter of a million s 
 worth on the sleds." 
 
 "Then, I m right, huh? You ought to be 
 jumping up and down thanking your lucky stars 
 
 or" 
 
 "Or our San Francisco lawyer " Ern 
 added significantly. 
 
 "Say," Browning s voice fairly bubbled with 
 praise, "Sam is a wonder! Ern, you and Sam 
 together are the fastest workers in the United 
 States. No by Jove in the world! Let s 
 have a drink." Pete heard the clinking of 
 glasses, then Browning, continuing between 
 smacks of his pudgy lips. 
 
274 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 "But, say, who s the little old goat that s 
 hopping around town lately like a flock of 
 fleas?" 
 
 "Don t know. He s been too busy at the 
 Land Office to suit me," Ern replied. 
 
 "How long s he been here?" Browning 
 asked, and it seemed to Pete that his voice 
 had a color of seriousness in it. 
 
 "Nearly two weeks now." 
 
 "Oh, well cheer up, Ern, have another 
 drink," glasses clinked again, and Browning 
 continued. 
 
 "This thing was sure to break some time. 
 I wouldn t be surprised if he s some stockholder 
 of Sharpe s trying to make trouble. Whew, 
 this old Gopher s mine certainly came in at the 
 right time, didn t it?" 
 
 "Ye es," Ern seemed to hesitate as he 
 answered. "Ye es, it certainly has relieved 
 matters." 
 
 It seemed from the way he spoke that he 
 had already lost the enthusiasm Browning had 
 tried so hard to instil. 
 
 "Oh, for heaven s sake, Ern, come out and 
 say yes, damnit yes, like that!" Browning 
 fairly shouted the words. "Ern, some day I m 
 going to get a gun and make you admit some 
 thing, anything, without your infernal qualify 
 ing all the time." 
 
 Browning, in spite of his effort to be cock- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 275 
 
 sure of success, betrayed the uncertainty that 
 was working within himself, pulling his nerves 
 to shreds, it seemed. 
 
 "Well, this mine isn t ours yet. Not until 
 we record this deed," Pete heard Ern tap a 
 paper as he spoke. 
 
 u But we ve got it, haven t we? Great 
 heavens, two days ago we were all up in the air, 
 now we ve got our money in sight again, and 
 you have the deed, what more do you want?" 
 
 "Just to record it that s all, we ve got 
 absolutely no contract covering the property. 
 All we have is the deed, if anything happens 
 before we record " 
 
 At this point Houston s words were 
 drowned by a loud smashing kick, following 
 which Pete heard the door leading to the office 
 fly open as some one entered noisily. 
 
 "Robbed!" Demon s voice thundered 
 "two men killed horses, ore, sleds, everything 
 gone where are they?" 
 
 Perhaps a look of consternation and com 
 plete bewilderment that came over Browning 
 and Houston checked a further wild outburst. 
 At any rate, after his first loud words, abso 
 lute silence ensued, so far as Pete could deter 
 mine. 
 
 Someone had closed the door, and now 
 sounds of men rushing about in the darkness 
 of the sleeping quarters made it impossible to 
 
276 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 make out further conversation. As he listened 
 intently to the general confusion, he knew that 
 the time had arrived for his final stroke, and he 
 boldly made his way toward the door of the 
 building. 
 
 As he entered the building, several men, ap 
 parently stragglers from the lost ore train 
 rushed past him and joined the excited group 
 within. No one observed his presence, as he 
 cautiously picked his way thru the shadows to 
 ward the office in the rear. On coming up to it, 
 he hesitated a moment before the knob of the 
 door, uncertain whether he should first try it 
 gently, and risk the chance of putting the three 
 men inside on their guard, or whether he should 
 smash his full weight against it, finish the work 
 inside, and take his chance with the men in the 
 long room; rough and hardy men who would 
 certainly attack, once they heard his bold crash. 
 
 He decided on the former plan, and ripping 
 his gun from its holster, he opened the door si 
 lently, and stepped into the presence of Brown 
 ing, Houston and Demons. 
 
 "Shut up 1" he growled, leveling his gun 
 full at the heads of the bewildered trio. 
 
 "One word and I drill the three of you 
 up with your lily-whites, J. D. your name s 
 written on every bullet in this gun, and I m mak 
 ing deliveries damn sudden!" 
 
 Browning s teeth chattered loudly as he 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 277 
 
 looked over the gun into the wild eyed, bushy 
 haired Pete, who loomed like a young giant 
 before them. The harsh commands sizzled 
 through Pete s teeth like escaping steam, and 
 his body shook as though the pressure of pent- 
 up rage was about to burst into action. 
 
 "Down Demons down on your belly; 
 quick ! Hands over your back look into the 
 floor! There, that way" Pete could restrain 
 himself no longer, and as he observed Demons 
 hand reach for a gun, he emphasized his com 
 mands by lifting a heavy boot to the back of 
 Demons head, bringing it down in a way that 
 smashed the villainous face of the engineer into 
 the coarse spruce planks. The action was a 
 rash one, for Demons cried loudly in pain. 
 Someone in the long room without, heard the 
 cry, and knocked on the door. Pete turned to 
 Browning. 
 
 "Order them to stay out quick, or I 
 shoot!" as he spoke, he pressed the trigger of 
 his gun until the hammer moved backwards 
 visibly. 
 
 U D d don t come i n st st s t ay 
 out !" Browning fairly shouted the last 
 words, and Pete heard the men at the door walk 
 noisily away. 
 
 "Now Mr. Best Lawyer in the World, 
 hand over that deed" Pete commanded 
 steadily of Houston. 
 
278 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Aside from a deathlike pallor that came 
 over his face, and a murderous look in his 
 eyes, Houston showed no sign of emotion as 
 he handed over the precious papers marked 
 in big black type, "QUIT CLAIM DEED." 
 
 Pete took it savagely from his hand and 
 held it over the flaming lamp until it burned to 
 a black char in his fingers. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Houston, a little paper and a 
 pencil and lay it on the table. So! Now 
 both of you down with Demons quick, and 
 I won t make a blood-pie out of your face like 
 I did for your crooked engineer here !" 
 
 Then, dividing his attention between his 
 prostrate prisoners and the paper on the table, 
 Pete hastily scrawled a note to Hawkins. 
 
 "Come to Moapa at once you and Susie," 
 it started. "The mine is once more yours use 
 the pass enclosed don t talk to anyone and 
 don t sign anything." Pete scrawled his name 
 beneath the writing, and turned again on his 
 floored victims. 
 
 "Now Browning, get up rest of you move 
 your heads and I ll squash em through the 
 floor!" 
 
 Browning rose dizzily to his feet. "Now 
 sit here and write what I tell you." Pete dic 
 tated : 
 
 "It is very important that the bearer, Brud 
 Hawkins, sole owner of the Dead Horse Mine, 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 279 
 
 and Susie " here Pete hesitated "Susie 
 Tamarack no just write Susie arrive safely 
 in Moapa. Do all you can to aid them. Now 
 sign it," Pete ordered, as Browning s trembling 
 hand finished with the note. 
 
 But even as he wrote, Browning seemed to 
 regain his poise, and to collect his scattered 
 wits. Observing this, Pete leaned toward him 
 menacingly and rubbed the barrel of his gun 
 along the promoter s nose. 
 
 "Do I have to kill you?" he grunted. In 
 stantly the look of terror came back into 
 Browning s eyes. He had faced desperate 
 situations before, but never one in which the 
 principal actor was a raging madman. 
 
 "N n no for God s sake whoever 
 you are take it away," he pleaded. 
 
 "Then quit thinking and shut up!" 
 snapped Pete, giving the gun a vicious jab that 
 brought blood from a long cut it inflicted on 
 Browning s nose. 
 
 "Now you two birds get up," he ordered, 
 and at the command, Demons and Houston 
 scrambled to their feet. Demons seemed to 
 want to talk but one glance at the blood- 
 smeared face of Browning changed his mind. 
 
 "Now all of you sit down and look 
 natural," Pete continued. "Browning when 
 I open the door, you holler out just what I say 
 
280 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 and nothing else. Wait a minute first name 
 a man who knows the mountains." 
 
 "I I don t know any," Browning stam 
 mered. 
 
 Pete turned on Demons. "You do name 
 a man out there who can locate the trapper s 
 cabin where Hawkins is staying." 
 
 "I don t know the men and Hawkins is 
 dead." 
 
 "You re lying," Pete thundered, and 
 jabbed his gun close to the puffed lips of the 
 engineer. "Now name a man tell the truth 
 or you ve lied for the last time, you cowardly 
 hound!" 
 
 "Pierre Pierre Eliot he knows the 
 mountains, and he s back." 
 
 "Ah that s better much better." 
 
 Pete opened the door standing inside its 
 shelter, allowing only space enough at the open 
 ing to permit Browning s voice to carry out. 
 
 "Call Pierre " he whispered harshly to 
 Browning. 
 
 A minute more and Pierre entered the 
 room. Pete closed the door and as he did so, 
 the breed got a full view of his shaggy face. 
 For a moment he quavered and looked uncer 
 tainly from one solemn face to the other about 
 the room. 
 
 "Pierre," Pete began, "your brother is near 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 281 
 
 death from the blizzard. He is at the cabin 
 with Hawkins." 
 
 "Jacques eet ees heem you mean?" 
 
 Pete nodded his head. Pierre was visibly 
 affected by the news, and as he spoke he crossed 
 himself and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. 
 
 "But he is not dead" Pete continued, "I 
 saved him." 
 
 "Mercie mercie on you, Meester Alden," 
 the excitable breed broke in, before Pete could 
 continue. 
 
 "But wait I am not finished do you know 
 the cabin?" 
 
 "Ah, the cabain he ess one Bannerie 
 my frien* it ees good." 
 
 "Then you must go to that cabin Pierre 
 it is Mr. Browning s order. Listen to this" 
 he read both the note he had written to Haw 
 kins as well as the pass Browning had signed. 
 
 Browning, prompted by an ominous jab 
 from Pete s concealed gun, nodded his head in 
 violent approval of Pete s orders, and Pierre 
 left in haste to carry the message. 
 
 "Now, down on your faces again!" Pete 
 snapped, turning on the silent three. 
 
 For the first time, Pete observed that it was 
 already daylight, and by the murky color of 
 the bit of sky he could see through the square 
 window pane, he knew that a storm was gather 
 ing. 
 
282 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Uttering a final threat to the prostrate men, 
 he searched the office desk and table for papers, 
 and the entire room for guns. Tucking what 
 he found in his spacious pockets, he jerked open 
 the door, and brandished his guns wildly. 
 Three times he blazed away close over the 
 heads of the startled miners. 
 
 "Line up, along the wall quick hands 
 high!" he shouted, firing again, this time into 
 the boards near the feet of the group nearest 
 him. 
 
 Following the tense excitement of the early 
 morning ore-train stampede, an episode which 
 had already reached the proportions of an 
 Indian massacre, in exaggerated accounts that 
 circulated among the men, the miners, unarmed 
 in the main, were only too willing to obey the 
 shot-punctuated commands of the wild looking 
 figure that loomed so suddenly before them. 
 
 "There s men layin for you all along the 
 road. If you re wise you re staying right here 
 all day" Pete thundered, as he edged to 
 ward the door "and don t forget the tunnel s 
 full of dynamite if you re more than anxious 
 to die go in there." With these final words 
 he emptied one of his guns shooting jagged 
 holes into the floor and through the upper part 
 of the office door in the rear, before he finally 
 backed out of the room, and dashed for the 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 283 
 
 thicket of brush behind which the blanketed 
 horses stood. 
 
 A moment more and he was galloping down 
 the trail, snow flying from the horses hoofs 
 and his fur coat waving out behind him as he 
 raced. Thus he rode for nearly two hundred 
 yards along the trail before the first crack of 
 rifles sounded from the rear. But for the 
 abrupt turn in the trail around which he 
 whirled, he would surely have fallen before the 
 deadly hail of steel-jacketed lead that whistled 
 above him. 
 
 Once out of danger he slowed the horse 
 he rode, and the one behind, to a trot and pre 
 pared for a long tedious ride to the pass below. 
 
 Snow was falling as he rounded the last 
 slippery turn in the trail and looked for the 
 first time since his poker game of months be 
 fore, upon the cluster of cabins that housed 
 Jenkins and his crew at Salmon Tooth Pass. 
 
 Fifty yards from the buildings he halted. 
 There was no evidence of life in the cabins; yet 
 he felt that he was under observation. He saw 
 fresh tracks leading to the back door, tracks 
 still visible in spite of the heavy fall of snow. 
 
 Convinced that his only hope of getting 
 through the narrow pass lay in bold and prompt 
 action, he urged his horses to a trot and pulled 
 up a few yards from the door. 
 
284 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 Eighteen miles of bare-back riding had ren 
 dered his badly abused muscles stiff and un 
 wieldy, and as he hoisted his leg with great 
 difficulty over the back of his horse, he slipped 
 and fell heavily to the snow. Even as he 
 sprawled about, and before he could regain his 
 feet, the door of the cabin flew open and three 
 armed men rushed out. 
 
 The leader was Jenkins, who for a moment 
 stood over the prostrate form of Pete scowling 
 uncertainly as though to fix the identity of the 
 man, in his mind. 
 
 "Get up hands first and keep them 
 high," he ordered as Pete struggled to rise. 
 
 "All right Mr. Jenkins but why the 
 guns?" 
 
 At the sound of Pete s voice, the expression 
 on Jenkins face changed. 
 
 "Ah it is Alden. I thought so." Jen 
 kins turned to one of his companions. "Sheriff, 
 here s your man he s come to meet you. 
 You d better hustle him right off. There may 
 be more up the gulch. Certainly had help in 
 that hold up this morning!" 
 
 The sheriff advanced on Pete with a gun 
 in one hand and a pair of heavy iron hand-cuffs 
 in the other. 
 
 "Peter Alden you re under arrest! I m 
 the sheriff of Moapa County stick out your 
 hands!" 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 285 
 
 Resistance was useless, so Pete regained his 
 composure as quickly as possible, and held out 
 his hands for the irons. Then he asked what 
 the charges against him were. 
 
 The sheriff after securing his prisoner, read 
 from a sheaf of papers : 
 
 "Passing worthless checks on the Bank of 
 Moapa. 
 
 "Dynamiting the Dead Horse Mine. 
 
 "Stealing clothing and valuable papers. 
 
 "Highway robbery, and " 
 
 "I guess that s enough let s go," Pete in 
 terrupted, leaning his weary manacled arms 
 over the back of the horse. 
 
 A moment more and the armed men, with 
 Pete in the center, started for Moapa. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 TLTEAR ye Hear ye Hear ye The Su- 
 * * perior Court of Moapa County, State of 
 Montana is called to order!" 
 
 The melancholy drone of the bailiff failed 
 to check the buzz of conversation. 
 
 "This is what I call bringing em to justice 
 quick." 
 
 "Understand Ern Houston s been sworn 
 in to prosecute this case." 
 
 "They say J. D. s got it in for the prisoners, 
 and he always wins." 
 
 Bang! Bang! Bang! The bailiff s gavel 
 drowned the loudly whispered words, and pro 
 duced a hush of silence over the court room. 
 
 The Judge calmly finished a glass of water 
 and announced : "The case of People vs. Peter 
 Alden, Jr., Brud Hawkins, Susie Morgan, 
 et al." 
 
 Pete, a picture of utter dejection, shuffled 
 wearily in his chair in the prisoner s box. Haw 
 kins and Tarn, who sat beside him, shared his 
 wretchedness. 
 
 The Judge spoke. 
 
 "Mr. Houston, I understand that you are 
 representing the District Attorney s office in 
 the prosecution of this case." 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 287 
 
 "I am, your Honor," Houston, efficient and 
 alert as ever, seemed bubbling over with confi 
 dence, as he stood for a moment and replied to 
 the Judge. Then he sat down and continued 
 whispering words to Browning and Sharpe, 
 who sat with him at the counsel s table, lean 
 ing back comfortably in their well-padded 
 chairs. 
 
 The Court continued. 
 
 "The defendants in this case, having 
 pleaded not guilty to the charges brought 
 against them, have further stated that they are 
 unable to provide counsel for themselves. The 
 state has, therefore, appointed Jud Weeks to 
 defend them. Is Mr. Weeks present?" 
 
 Browning winked covertly at Houston, 
 leaned toward him and whispered, "Where is 
 he, Ern?" 
 
 "He s had a wild night, but he ll be here 
 in a minute," Houston answered. 
 
 The Judge raised his voice and asked again : 
 "Is Mr. Weeks present?" 
 
 Sharpe nudged Houston, who quickly arose 
 and addressed the Court: 
 
 "Your Honor, I understand that the attor 
 ney for the defense has been delayed. I have 
 every reason to believe, however, that he will 
 be here very shortly." 
 
 "Mr. Houston," the Court replied, "it is 
 not the duty of the prosecuting attorney s office 
 
288 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 to account for the attorney of the defense. 
 This is the first case over which this court has 
 presided. Mr. Weeks has been appointed to 
 defend the accused, but if he is not in court, 
 this case will be set ahead on the calendar. 
 The charges brought against the accused are 
 extremely grave ones, and every consideration 
 must be shown them in procuring a proper de 
 fense." 
 
 Houston sat down and whispered again to 
 Browning. "Of all the Judges in Montana, 
 the Governor certainly appointed the wrong 
 one for us; this bird would convict his own 
 mother if she was guilty." 
 
 The Judge spoke to the prisoners. 
 
 "Peter Alden, can you or those accused with 
 you, advise the Court if Mr. Weeks intends to 
 be present?" 
 
 Hawkins, strong and vigorous, but trem 
 bling with emotion, answered before Pete could 
 reply. 
 
 "Your Honor, Mr. Weeks has not seen us 
 more than thirty minutes during all the while 
 we ve been in jail. No one has been allowed 
 to see us. I don t believe . . . ." 
 
 He was suddenly interrupted by Pete, who 
 tugged violently at his coat, waving his free 
 hand frantically as he did so in the direction of 
 a group of men who entered the court room in 
 the rear. 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 289 
 
 Instantly everyone in the room turned to 
 see the cause of his sudden frantic elation. 
 
 The bailiff banged his gavel and shouted, 
 "Order in the court room." 
 
 Browning paled perceptibly as he leaned 
 over toward Sharpe and Houston. "It s that 
 damn goat," he whispered, "what s he doing 
 here? Do you know the men with him?" 
 
 "Uncle John, Judge Stivers!" Pete called 
 aloud, his deep voice filling the court room. 
 
 Again the bailiff s gavel banged for silence. 
 
 Judge Stivers, erect, proud and defiant, 
 looked neither to the right nor left, as he came 
 with quick, springy steps through the rail of 
 the attorney s inclosure and directly up to the 
 Judge. His long-trained judicial voice caused 
 the entire court room to hush breathlessly as 
 he spoke. 
 
 "May it please the Court, I have here cer 
 tain credentials to present." 
 
 So saying he handed over a bundle of 
 papers, but the Court had already recognized 
 its distinguished visitor, and with both arms ex 
 tended, grasped the hand of Judge Stivers, and 
 shook it warmly. 
 
 "The Court will adjourn for fifteen min 
 utes," the Judge annouced briefly, and hurried 
 with the visitor to private chambers. 
 
 Again the gavel sounded and court re-con 
 vened. 
 
290 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 The enthusiasm that radiated from the 
 prisoner s box spread rapidly over the entire 
 room. Houston, Browning and Sharpe alone 
 seeming suddenly chilled. They twitched ner 
 vously at papers and whispered excitedly among 
 themselves. During the recess Demons and 
 Jud Weeks had entered the court room, and 
 now sat in conference with the three. 
 
 "It appears," the Court announced, "that 
 the State of Montana has for some time past 
 been honored by the presence of Judge Jona 
 than Stivers, who for twenty years has enjoyed 
 the distinction of being one of the leading jurists 
 of the State of California. Although he needs 
 no credentials in any court in the land, he has 
 presented today all of the papers, signed by the 
 Governor of this State, and has taken other 
 necessary steps to admit himself to practice in 
 this court, in the case now at bar." 
 
 Houston, shaking visibly, arose to his feet. 
 
 "Your Honor, as the Attorney for the Peo 
 ple, I would like to examine his credentials." 
 
 The papers were duly handed over, but the 
 overwhelming blow was too much for even 
 the astute Houston, and he made the most of a 
 bad beginning by stipulating that Judge Stivers 
 be admitted to defend the prisoners at bar. 
 
 For the first time Judge Stivers permitted 
 his eyes to meet those of the astounded and ra 
 diantly happy Pete. With difficulty he signaled 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 291 
 
 as best he could that the prisoners should main 
 tain a quiet, dignified manner while the for 
 malities of the trial were in order. Then, as 
 the necessary details were being arranged, he 
 walked quietly over to the box, shook hands 
 calmly with his clients, conferred with them 
 briefly and then informed the Court that he 
 was willing to proceed to trial. 
 
 Following his remarks, the Court asked: 
 
 "Is the State ready?" 
 
 "Ready," Houston replied. 
 
 "Is the defense ready?" 
 
 Stivers addressed the Court. 
 
 "Your Honor, in this rather unusual mat 
 ter of the People vs. Peter Alden, Jr., Brud 
 Hawkins, Susie Morgan and others, I move 
 that the case be dismissed 
 
 "First: because the papers filed in the case 
 are wholly illegal and irregular, as will be 
 pointed out if the occasion demands; 
 
 "Second: because the complaining witness, 
 a certain J. D. Browning, now in this court, 
 together with every material witness they have 
 designated to be called, towit: Thomas Sharpe, 
 Peleg Demons and one Len Jenkins, are all and 
 each of them about to be arrested under a Fed 
 eral indictment, charging embezzlement and 
 fraud, and; 
 
 "Third : Because the man sitting here, rep 
 resenting himself to be an attorney in good 
 
292 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 standing, Ernest Houston by name, is not only 
 wanted on the same indictment as the others 
 just before mentioned, but in addition faces an 
 indictment handed down by a Grand Jury in 
 San Francisco, charging conspiracy and crimi 
 nal persecution in unlawfully causing the ar 
 rest and imprisonment of one Halburt Mor 
 gan, brother of the accused . . . ." 
 
 At these words, a shriek of delight from 
 Tarn in the prisoner s box, precipitated general 
 confusion and excited comment throughout the 
 room. 
 
 The bailiff pounded loudly and called upon 
 officers present to restore order. 
 
 Stivers, still calm and dignified, waited un 
 til the court room was again quiet, then con 
 tinued : 
 
 "Regarding the charge of fictitious checks 
 brought against Peter Alden, one of the scoun 
 drels who signed the information, is James 
 Hogan, alias Jimmy Duff, alias Buller Garret, 
 wanted for murder " 
 
 At these words still another wild commo 
 tion broke out, as Buller Garret, seated in the 
 back of the court room, attempted to rush the 
 guards at the door. 
 
 Order again restored, Stivers tried to con 
 tinue, but the Court interrupted. 
 
 "The motion is granted," the Judge an 
 nounced, then raising his hand for silence, con- 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 293 
 
 tinued: "The Court takes this occasion, and 
 wishes to go on record, as sincerely thanking 
 Peter Alden, Jr., Brud Hawkins and Susie 
 Morgan, for the great part, so Judge Stivers 
 has informed this Court, that they have taken 
 in bringing to justice the culprits against whom 
 the Federal indictments referred to have been 
 brought. During the brief recess period Judge 
 Stivers, the attorney for the defense, exhibited 
 a record of atrocities perpetrated by the in 
 dicted men sitting at the prosecuting attorney s 
 table that are more heinous than anything this 
 Court has heretofore seen. The defense coun 
 sel states that Susie Morgan is largely respon 
 sible for this mass of evidence " 
 
 At this point in the Court s statement, Pete 
 could restrain himself no longer, and grasping 
 both of Tarn s slender hands, he drew close to 
 her ear, until his shaggy beard mingled with 
 her wavy brown hair. What he whispered 
 there doesn t matter; but what she whispered 
 in reply sent Pete s heart pounding in sudden 
 ecstasy. 
 
 Old Hawkins took it all in, like the sage he 
 was, then leaned over and whispered to them 
 both. 
 
 "She sent her precious record to your Uncle 
 John long ago, Pete, but the foxy old codger 
 wouldn t let us say a word to any " 
 
 At this point the Court raised its voice and 
 
294 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 drew the attention even of the ex-prisoners. 
 
 "I understand," the Court was saying, 
 "that Federal officers are here present. The 
 case before the bar is therefore dismissed, and 
 court adjourned, in order that they may do their 
 duty." 
 
 Pete, fairly dragging Tarn and Hawkins 
 with him, staggered forward and took the slen 
 der form of Judge Stivers in his arms and fairly 
 shook the tender words of greeting from him. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Stivers, I thought you had for 
 gotten us, where have you been?" Tarn asked 
 between sobs of joy. 
 
 "Only way to do it, little girl; if those 
 crooks had seen us talking together, we might 
 have had a harder time." 
 
 "Judge Stivers," Hawkins trembling voice 
 broke in, "I ve had many a happy day in my 
 fifty odd years, but this one is the best of all. 
 The girl here didn t know what to do with her 
 evidence, but I know men. When Pete ad 
 dressed those poker cards to you, I knew you 
 ought to have Tarn s stuff, too. I knew from 
 the first Pete was not . . . ." 
 
 "Not a thief," Pete broke in, "go on, say 
 it." 
 
 "Oh, that" Stivers interrupted, "Pete tried 
 to convict himself, that s all, by writing such a 
 fool letter to us; the office manager stole the 
 money." 
 
THE YELLOW TRAIL 295 
 
 "Then father knows?" it was the first time 
 Pete had had an opportunity to ask the one 
 question uppermost in his mind. 
 
 u Yes, you young gorilla," old Stivers had 
 been waiting for the question, "I left him with 
 the Governor at Helena; he ll be here tonight. 
 Now for Heaven s sake come and get cleaned 
 up; hire all the barbers in town; we want to 
 have a family dinner tonight, just we five." 
 
 * * * * 
 
 That night, under the soft lights of a pri 
 vate dining room, the best Moapa could fur 
 nish, Pete, again the well-bred, immaculately 
 dressed city man, affectionately patted the 
 shoulder, first of his father, whose fond eyes 
 fairly devoured him, and then of Judge Stivers, 
 who continued to berate both Pete and his 
 father, in good natured fun, telling them re 
 peatedly, between winks at Hawkins and Tarn, 
 that old Uncle John had to come to the rescue 
 after all. 
 
 It was probably the happiest moment in the 
 life of Brud Hawkins, and already he was 
 making plans for the future of the Dead Horse 
 Mine ; plans that included a huge dredge for the 
 placer miners. 
 
 Tarn alone, could scarcely restrain the tears 
 of joy that kept welling to her eyes as she asked 
 
296 THE YELLOW TRAIL 
 
 over and over again about her brother. Once 
 she whispered covertly to Hawkins, "Things 
 do come out like stories, sometimes, don t 
 they?" 
 
 "Well, Peter, my son," old Alden finally 
 announced over his cigar and coffee, "you are 
 an Alden after all. I always knew you would 
 come through, somehow, after you had learned 
 to buck the waves" looking meaningly at 
 Stivers. "Now that you have made the con 
 quest of the hills, I presume you will condescend 
 to return to San Francisco?" 
 
 "Yes, father," Pete s words came confus 
 edly fast as he looked full into the blushing face 
 of Tarn, "yes, when I ve finished the conquest." 
 
 He continued to look at her, even after he 
 had spoken. Then observing the evident dis 
 comfiture of Hawkins, he added: 
 
 "But maybe the Dead Horse Mine needs 
 a laborer, and I think, Dad, that you and Uncle 
 John both need a change of air. They say the 
 mountains here are wonderful in the spring 
 time, aren t they, Tarn?" 
 
 "Oh . . . just wonderful," she murmured. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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