Down the Mother Lode Part 17

"Step up, gents. Only a dollar to see the big fight. One little dollar to view the greatest contest of the age. See the champion fighting jacka.s.s of the state vanquish the biggest grizzly in the Sierra mountains.

"The unconquerable battling jacka.s.s who has whipped two bulls down at Sonora, and caused a mountain lion to turn tail. Step up, gents. Only a dollar to get inside the ropes," and Webfoot Watson waved a well-kept hand toward the arena. It was a pine-staked palisade, bound around the top with rawhide thongs. At one end, the "champion donk" was tethered, and at the other the "fiercest grizzly" was confined in a stout cage of solid planks.

"Step in, gents! There are logs and stumps to stand on. The show will begin immediately. We are now loosing the lion-eating jack. He--"

"Hey!" roared Swipe-eye Weller, pointing to the laden trees outside the enclosure, "ef you think I'm agoin' to pay a dollar for this here show jest because I ain't no tree-climbin' animal, you're pickin' out the wrong customer. They coughs up a screamer apiece, or this act don't begin actin'. That's final!"

Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in the trees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and the jack was then turned loose in the palisade.

"He's eatin' gra.s.s," piped up old Grease-top Jamie. "Say, I can see twenty jacka.s.ses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent any day, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!"

"Hi! Here he comes! Eat 'im up, jack! Why, that ain't no grizzly.

Sufferin' stars, he's only a little scared cinnamon."

"He's goin' after mister-old-donk, though."

"Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks on 'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im--" but the little cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took to the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and bullets of the disgruntled spectators.

Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in the camp.

"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?"

asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.

"Why, it's Anthony Barstow! Look at the purple raiment! Man, you must have struck pay dirt."

"Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will you take for the donk?"

"Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im, Rover!" and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the street to the newest excitement.

Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. "I was saving it for tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?" The long ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy daintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into the best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presided over by a woman dealer.

"Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play," she told him courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.

"Ho! Ho! Barstow," roared Copper-down Hicks. "That's one on you! The madam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the green cloth for a livin'."

"It is monsieur's toilette zat 'ave cause ze mistake. I have now better observe he's face. He is welcome."

"Don't think your friend can sit in, though," observed Champer-down, grinning broadly.

Anthony turned. The donkey had followed him in, and was standing just behind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showing in every contour of his s.h.a.ggy body.

"I have consorted with many of his kind," said Anthony, smiling, "and I prefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise, his calm exterior, which does conceal the fiery depths of his nature; in fact, all his so-called animal attributes I prefer, to the more sophisticated allure of his human gender." Anthony laid a strong hand on the little beast's shoulder, while the French woman regarded him curiously out of long black eyes.

"There, take that, you good for nothing cur," and a man kicked a dog in through the door, to lie in a twisted, b.l.o.o.d.y heap upon the floor.

"What do you mean, you brute!" called Anthony, springing upon the miner, who immediately closed with him. Mignon screamed, and ran to stop them.

"Monsieur, for why you do--?"

"Aw, he got licked. I lost money on him."

"Yes, and you haven't paid me, neither. You sh.e.l.l out, you Buckeye Pete!" spoke up a tall Kentuckian, with a mastiff on a leash.

"It wasn't a fair fight, Spotty Collins," whined Buckeye.

"It was--it was, so!" called a chorus of voices.

"I'll buy your dog," said Anthony. "That will pay your debts." Anthony handed the money to Collins, picked up the half dead dog, and, holding him against his immaculate new frilled s.h.i.+rt, he strode away toward his claim over the mountain. The jack, whose att.i.tude had hair, never changed by so much as the waving of a suddenly raised an alert head and as his benefactor vanished, he ambled quickly after him.

Pete sought to stop him at the door and in one lightning and concerted movement, he bit and struck and kicked, scattering the crowd in all directions. When the men watching Anthony down the street, burst into laughter at the bizarre procession, the French girl silenced them with fierce, hissing syllables..

"Heh! Dude Anthony, beloved of the b--"

"Zose words you shall not call la pet.i.te hound an' me. Even name of a dog is for such as you too good to be call'. Monsieur, we take pleasaire in your departure from hence."

"Go on, please the lady, Buckeye. There's no other jacka.s.s to keep you here any longer."

And Buckeye departed in a perfect indigo haze of profanity.

"Mignon, have you heard the news?"

"Non, Monsieur, I 'ave sleep all ze day."

"Spotty Collins was found in Blue Ravine this morning, robbed and murdered. You see, he had a lot of money on him from the dog fight."

"But ze beeg hound?"

"He was shot, too."

"Ze murderer, zey 'ave caught?"

"Not yet. They say the sheriff's on his trail, though. He just got back from Sacramento and he went right out. By jinks, he's coming now! An'

he's got 'im!"

"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Ant'ony!"

"No!"

"Oui! Heem, my woman's heart knows well."

"By jinks, you must be right! There's the fightin' jack followin' the horses. Dude Anthony of all people!"

"It is not true! It cannot be!"

"Think I've got my man, boys. His clothes are covered with blood and the money was in his cabin."

"I have just made a strike in my claim. That is my own money."