Rimrock Jones

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[Frontispiece: And as he passed, he looked in
under the shadow of his hat, and touched
a bag that was tied behind his saddle]

RIMROCK JONES

BY

DANE COOLIDGE

AUTHOR OF

THE DESERT TRAIL

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

GEORGE W. GAGE

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY

W. J. WATT & COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE MAN WITH A GUN
II. WHEN RICHES FLY
III. MISS FORTUNE
IV. AS A LOAN
V. THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
VI. RIMROCK PASSES
VII. BUT COMES BACK FOR MORE
VIII. A FLIER IN STOCKS
IX. YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND
X. THE FIGHT FOR THE OLD JUAN
XI. A LITTLE TROUBLE
XII. RIMROCK'S BIG DAY
XIII. THE MORNING AFTER
XIV. RIMROCK EXPLAINS
XV. A GAME FOR BIG STAKES
XVI. THE TIGER LADY
XVII. AN AFTERTHOUGHT
XVIII. NEW YORK
XIX. WHERE ALL MEN MEET
XX. A LETTER FROM THE SECRETARY
XXI. THE SECOND ANNUAL MEETING
XXII. A FOOL
XXIII. SOLD OUT
XXIV. THE NEW YEAR
XXV. AN ACCOUNTING
XXVI. A CHAPTER OF HATE
XXVII. THE SHOW-DOWN
XXVIII. A GIFT
XXIX. RIMROCK DOES IT HIMSELF

ILLUSTRATIONS

And as he passed, he looked in under the shadow
of his hat, and touched a bag that was tied
behind his saddle . . . _Frontispiece_

Rimrock Jones left town with four burro-loads
of powder, some provisions and a cargo of tools

That was Rimrock's notice, but now it was void
for the hour was long after twelve

RIM ROCK JONES

CHAPTER I.

THE MAN WITH A GUN

The peace of midday lay upon Gunsight, broken only by the distant
_chang, chang_ of bells as a ten-mule ore-team came toiling in from the
mines. In the cool depths of the umbrella tree in front of the
Company's office a Mexican ground-dove crooned endlessly his ancient
song of love, but Gunsight took no notice. Its thoughts were not of
love but of money.

The dusty team of mules passed down the street, dragging their
double-trees reluctantly, and took their cursing meekly as they made
the turn at the tracks. A switch engine bumped along the sidings,
snaking ore-cars down to the bins and bunting them up to the chutes,
but except for its bangings and clamor the town was still. An aged
Mexican, armed with a long bunch of willow brush, swept idly at the
sprinkled street and Old Hassayamp Hicks, the proprietor of the Alamo
Saloon, leaned back in his rawhide chair and watched him with
good-natured contempt.

The town was dead, after a manner of speaking, and yet it was not dead.
In the Gunsight Hotel where the officials of the Company left their
women-folks to idle and fret and gossip, there was a restless flash of
white from the upper veranda; and in the office below Andrew McBain,
the aggressive President of the Gunsight Mining and Developing Company,
paced nervously to and fro as he dictated letters to a typist. He
paused, and as the clacking stopped a woman who had been reading a
novel on the veranda rose up noiselessly and listened over the railing.
The new typist was really quite deaf--one could hear every word that
was said. She was pretty, too,--and--well, she dressed too well, for
one thing.

But McBain was not making love to his typist. He had stopped with a
word on his lips and stood gazing out the window. The new typist had
learned to read faces and she followed his glance with a start. Who
was this man that Andrew McBain was afraid of? He came riding in from
the desert, a young man, burly and masterful, mounted on a buckskin
horse and with a pistol slung low on his leg. McBain turned white, his
stern lips drew tighter and he stood where he had stopped in his stride
like a wolf that has seen a fierce dog; then suddenly he swung forward
again and his voice rang out harsh and defiant. The new typist took
the words down at haphazard, for her thoughts were not on her work.
She was thinking of the man with a gun. He had gone by without a
glance, and yet McBain was afraid of him.

A couple of card players came out of the Alamo and stopped to talk with
Hassayamp.

"Well, bless my soul," exclaimed the watchful Hassayamp as he suddenly
brought his chair down with a bump, "if hyer don't come that locoed
scoundrel, Rimrock! Say, that boy's crazy, don't you know he is--jest
look at that big sack of rocks!"

He rose up heavily and stepped out into the street, shading his eyes
from the glare of the sun.

"Hello thar, Rimmy!" he rumbled bluffly as the horseman waved his hand,
"whar you been so long, and nothin' heard of you? There's been a woman
hyer, enquirin' for you, most every day for a month now!"

"'S that so?" responded Rimrock guardedly. "Well, say, boys, I've
struck it rich!"

He leaned back to untie a sack of ore, but Old Hassayamp was not to be
deterred.

"Yes sir," he went on opening up his eyes triumphantly, "a widdy
woman--says you owe her two-bits for some bread!"

He laughed uproariously at this pointed jest and clambered back to the
plank sidewalk where he sat down convulsed in his chair.

"Aw, you make me tired!" said Rimrock shortly. "You know I don't owe
no woman."

"You owe every one else, though," came back Hassayamp with a Texas
yupe; "I got you there, boy. You shore cain't git around that!"

"Huh!" grunted Rimrock as he swung lightly to the ground. "Two bits,
maybe! Four bits! A couple of dollars! What's that to talk about
when a man is out after millions? Is my credit good for the drinks?
Well, come on in then, boys; and I'll show you something good!"

He led the way through the swinging doors and Hassayamp followed
ponderously. The card players followed also and several cowboys,
appearing as if by miracle, lined up along with the rest. Old
Hassayamp looked them over grimly, breathed hard and spread out the
glasses.

"Well, all right, Rim," he observed, "between friends--but don't bid in
the whole town."

"When I drink, my friends drink," answered Rimrock and tossed off his
first drink in a month. "Now!" he went on, fetching out his sack,
"I'll show you something good!"

He poured out a pile of blue-gray sand and stood away from it
admiringly.

Old Hassayamp drew out his glasses and balanced them on his nose, then
he gazed at the pile of sand.

"Well," he said, "what is it, anyway?"

"It's copper, by grab, mighty nigh ten per cent copper, and you can
scoop it up with a shovel. There's worlds of it, Hassayamp, a whole
doggoned mountain! That's the trouble, there's almost too much! I
can't handle it, man, it'll take millions to do it; but believe me, the
millions are there. All I need is a stake now, just a couple of
thousand dollars----"

"Huh!" grunted Hassayamp looking up over his glasses, "you don't reckon
I've got that much, do you, to sink in a pile of _sand_?"

"If not you, then somebody else," replied Rimrock confidently. "Some
feller that's out looking for sand. I heard about a sport over in
London that tried on a bet to sell five-pound notes for a shilling.
That's like me offering to sell you twenty-five dollars for the English
equivalent of two bits. And d'ye think he could get anyone to take
'em? He stood up on a soap box and waved those notes in the air, but
d'ye think he could get anybody to buy?"

He paused with a cynical smile and looked Hassayamp in the eye.

"Well--no," conceded Hassayamp weakly.

"You bet your life he could!" snapped back Rimrock. "A guy came along
that knowed. He took one look at those five-pound notes and handed up
fifty cents."

"'I'll take two of 'em,' he says; and walks off with fifty dollars!"

Rimrock scooped up his despised sand and poured it back into the bag,
after which he turned on his heel. As the doors swung to behind him
Old Hassayamp looked at his customers and shook his head impressively.
From the street outside Rimrock could be heard telling a Mexican in
Spanish to take his horse to the corrals. He was master of Gunsight
yet, though all his money had vanished and his credit would buy nothing
but the drinks.

"Well, what d'ye know about that?" observed Hassayamp meditatively.
"By George, sometimes I almost think that boy is right!"

He cleared his throat and hobbled towards the door and the crowd took
the hint to disperse.

On the edge of the shady sidewalk Rimrock Jones, the follower after big
dreams, sat silent, balancing the sack of ore in a bronzed and
rock-scarred hand. He was a powerful man, with the broad, square-set
shoulders that come from much swinging of a double jack or cranking at
a windlass. The curling beard of youth had covered his hard-bitten
face and his head was unconsciously thrust forward, as if he still
glimpsed his vision and was eager to follow it further. The crowd
settled down and gazed at him curiously, for they knew he had a story
to tell, and at last the great Rimrock sighed and looked at his
work-worn hands.

"Hard going," he said, glancing up at Hassayamp. "I've got a ten-foot
hole to sink on twenty different claims, no powder, and nothing but
Mexicans for help. But I sure turned up some good ore--she gets richer
the deeper you go."

"Any gold?" enquired Hassayamp hopefully.

"Yes, but pocketty. I leave all that chloriding to the Mexicans while
I do my discovery work. They've got some picked rock on the dump."

"Why don't you quit that dead work and do a little chloriding yourself?
Pound out a little gold--that's the way to get a stake!"

Old Hassayamp spat the words out impatiently, but Rimrock seemed hardly
to hear.

"Nope," he said, "no pocket-mining for me. There's copper there,
millions of tons of it. I'll make my winning yet."

"Huh!" grunted Hassayamp, and Rimrock came out of his trance.

"You don't think so, hey?" he challenged and then his face softened to
a slow, reminiscent smile.

"Say, Hassayamp," he said, "did you ever hear about that prospector
that found a thousand pounds of gold in one chunk? He was lost on the
desert, plumb out of water and forty miles from nowhere. He couldn't
take the chunk along with him and if he left it there the sand would
cover it up. Now what was that poor feller to do?"

"Well, what did he do?" enquired Hassayamp cautiously.

"He couldn't make up his mind," answered Rimrock, "so he stayed there
till he starved to death."

"You're plumb full of these sayings and parables, ain't you?" remarked
Hassayamp sarcastically. "What's that got to do with the case?"

"Well," began Rimrock, sitting down on the edge of the sidewalk and
looking absently up the street, "take me, for instance. I go out
across the desert to the Tecolotes and find a whole mountain of copper.
You don't have to chop it out with chisels, like that native copper
around the Great Lakes; and you don't have to go underground and do
timbering like they do around Bisbee and Cananea. All you have to do
is to shoot it down and scoop it up with a steam shovel. Now I've
located the whole danged mountain and done most of my discovery work,
but if some feller don't give me a boost, like taking that prospector a
canteen of water, I've either got to lose my mine or sit down and
starve to death. If I'd never done anything, it'd be different, but
you know that I _made_ the Gunsight."

He leaned forward and fixed the saloon keeper with his earnest eyes and
Old Hassayamp held up both hands.

"Yes, yes, boy, I know!" he broke out hurriedly. "Don't talk to
me--I'm convinced. But by George, Rim, you can spend more money and
have less to show for it than any man I know. What's the use? That's
what we all say. What's the use of staking you when you'll turn right
around in front of us and throw the money away? Ain't I staked you?
Ain't L. W. staked you?"

"Yes! And he broke me, too!" answered Rimrock, raising his voice to a
defiant boom. "Here he comes now, the blue-faced old dastard!"

He thrust out his jaw and glared up the street where L. W. Lockhart,
the local banker, came stumping down the sidewalk. L. W. was tall and
rangy, with a bulldog jaw clamped down on a black cigar, and an air of
absolute detachment from his surroundings.

"Yes, I mean you!" shouted Rimrock insultingly as L. W. went grimly
past. "You claim to be a white man, and then stand in with that lawyer
to beat me out of my mine. I made you, you old nickel-pincher, and now
you go by me and don't even say: 'Have a drink!'"

"You're drunk!" retorted Lockhart, looking back over his shoulder, and
Rimrock jumped to his feet.

"I'll show you!" he cried, starting angrily after him, and L. W. turned
swiftly to meet him.

"You'll show me _what_?" he demanded coldly as Rimrock put his hand to
his gun.

"Never mind!" answered Rimrock. "You know you jobbed me. I let you in
on a good thing and you sold me out to McBain. I want some money and
if you don't give it to me I'll--I'll go over and collect from him."

"Oh, you want some money, hey?" repeated Lockhart. "I thought you was
going to _show_ me something!"

The banker scowled as he rolled his cigar, but there was a twinkle far
back in his eyes. "You're bad now, ain't you?" he continued
tauntingly. "You're just feeling awful! You're going to jump on Lon
Lockhart and stomp him into the ground! Huh!"

"Aw, shut your mouth!" answered Rimrock defiantly, "I never said a word
about fight."

"Uhhr!" grunted L. W. and put his hand in his pocket at which Rimrock
became suddenly expectant.

"Henry Jones," began the banker, "I knowed your father and he was an
honorable, hardworking man. You're nothing but a bum and you're
getting worse--why don't you go and put up that gun?"

"I don't have to!" retorted Rimrock but he moved up closer and there
was a wheedling turn to his voice. "Just two thousand dollars,
Lon--that's all I ask of you--and I'll give you a share in my mine.
Didn't I come to you first, when I discovered the Gunsight, and give
you the very best claim? And you ditched me, L. W., dad-burn you, you
know it; you sold me out to McBain. But I've got something now that
runs up into millions! All it needs is a little more work!"

"Yes, and forty miles of railroad," put in L. W. intolerantly. "I
wouldn't take the whole works for a gift!"

"No, but Lon, I'm lucky--you know that yourself--I can go East and sell
the old mine."

"Oh, you're lucky, are you?" interrupted L. W. "Well, how come then
that you're standing here, broke? But here, I've got business, I'll
give you ten dollars--and remember, it's the last that you get!"

He drew out a bill, but Rimrock stood looking at him with a slow and
contemptuous smile.

"Yes, you doggoned old screw," he answered ungraciously, "what good
will ten dollars do?"

"You can get just as drunk on that," replied L. W. pointedly, "as you
could on a hundred thousand!"

A change came over Rimrock's face, the swift mirroring of some great
idea, and he reached out and grabbed the money.

"Where you going?" demanded L. W. as he started across the street.

"None of your business," answered Rimrock curtly, but he headed
straight for the Mint.

CHAPTER II

WHEN RICHES FLY

The Mint was Gunsight's only gambling house. It had a bar, of course,
and a Mexican string band that played from eight o'clock on; besides a
roulette wheel, a crap table, two faro layouts, and monte for the
Mexicans. But the afternoon was dull and the faro dealer was idly
shuffling a double stack of chips when Rimrock brushed in through the
door. Half an hour afterwards the place was crowded and all the games
were running big. Such is the force of example--especially when you
win.

Rimrock threw his bill on the table, bought a stack of white chips,
placed it on the queen and told the dealer to turn 'em. The queen won
and Rimrock took his chips and played as the spirit moved. He won
more, for the house was unlucky from the start, and soon others began
to ride his bets. If he bet on the seven, eager hands reached over his
shoulder and placed more chips on the seven. Petty winners drifted off
to try their luck at monte, the sports took a flier at roulette; and as
the gambling spirit, so subtly fed, began to rise to a fever, Rimrock
Jones, the cause of all this heat, bet more and more--and still won.

It was at the height of the excitement when, with half of the checks in
the rack in front of him, Rimrock was losing and winning by turns, that
the bull-like rumble of L. W. Lockhart came drifting in to him above
the clamor of the crowd.

"Why don't you quit, you fool?" the deep voice demanded. "Cash in and
quit--you've got your stake!"

Rimrock made a gesture of absent-minded impatience and watched the slow
turn of the cards. Not even the dealer or the hawk-eyed lookout was
more intently absorbed in the game. He knew every card that had been
played and he bet where the odds were best. Every so often a long,
yellow hand reached past him and laid a bet by his stake. It was the
hand of a Chinaman, those most passionate of faro players, and at such
times, seeing it follow his luck, the face of Rimrock lightened up with
the semblance of a smile. He called the last turn and they paused for
the drinks, while the dealer mopped his brow.

"Where's Ike?" he demanded. "Well, somebody call him--he's hiding out,
asleep, upstairs."

"Yes, wake him up!" shouted Rimrock boastfully. "Tell him Rimrock
Jones is here."

"Aw, pull out, you sucker!" blared L. W. in his ear, but Rimrock only
shoved out his bets.

"Ten on the ace," droned the anxious dealer, "the jack is coppered.
All down?"

He held up his hand and as the betting ceased he slowly pushed out the
two cards.

"Tray loses, ace wins!" he announced and Rimrock won again.

Then he straightened up purposefully and looked about as he sorted his
winnings into piles.

"The whole works on the queen," he said to the dealer and a hush fell
upon the crowd.

"Where's Ike?" shrilled the dealer, but the boss was not to be found
and he dealt, unwillingly, for a queen. But the fear was on him and
his thin hands trembled; for Ike Bray was not the type of your
frozen-faced gambler--he expected his dealers to win. The dealer
shoved them out, and an oath slipped past his lips.

"Queen wins," he quavered, "the bank is broke." And he turned the box
on its side.

A shout went up--the glad yell of the multitude--and Rimrock rose up
grinning.

"Who said to pull out?" he demanded arrogantly, looking about for the
glowering L. W. "Huh, huh!" he chuckled, "quit your luck when you're
winning? Quit your luck and your luck will quit you--the drinks for
the house, barkeep!"

He was standing at the bar, stuffing money into his pockets, when Ike
Bray, the proprietor, appeared. Rimrock turned, all smiles, as he
heard his voice on the stairs and lolled back against the bar. More
than once in the past Bray had taken his roll but now it was his turn
to laugh.

"Lemme see," he remarked as he felt Bray's eyes upon him, "I wonder how
much I win."

He drew out the bills from his faded overalls and began laboriously to
count them out into his hat.

Ike Bray stopped and looked at him, a little, twisted man with his hair
still rumpled from the bed.

"Where's that dealer?" he shrilled in his high, complaining voice.
"I'll kill the danged piker--that bank ain't broke yet--I got a big
roll, right here!"

He waved it in the air and came limping forward until he stood facing
Rimrock Jones.

"You think you broke me, do you?" he demanded insolently as Rimrock
looked up from his count.

"You can see for yourself," answered Rimrock contentedly, and held out
his well-filled hat.

"You're a piker!" yelled Bray. "You don't dare to come back at me.
I'll play you one turn win or lose--for your pile!"

A hundred voices rang out at once, giving Rimrock all kinds of advice,
but L. W.'s rose above them all.

"Don't you do it!" he roared. "He'll clean you, for a certainty!" But
Rimrock's blue eyes were aflame.

"All right, Mr. Man," he answered on the instant, and went over and sat
down in his chair. "But bring me a new pack and shuffle 'em clean, and
I'll do the cutting myself."

"Ahhr!" snarled Bray, who was in villainous humor, as he hurled himself
into his place. "Y'needn't make no cracks--I'm on the square--and I'll
take no lip from anybody!"

"Well, shuffle 'em up then," answered Rimrock quietly, "and when I feel
like it I'll make my bet."

It was the middle of the night, as Bray's days were divided, and even
yet he was hardly awake; but he shuffled the cards until Rimrock was
satisfied and then locked them into the box. The case-keeper sat
opposite, to keep track of the cards, and a look-out on the stand at
one end, and while a mob of surging onlookers fought at their backs
they watched the slow turning of the cards.

"Why don't you bet?" snapped Bray; but Rimrock jerked his head and
beckoned him to go on.

"Yes, and lose half on splits," he answered grimly, "I'll bet when it
comes the last turn."

The deal went on till only three cards remained in the bottom of the
box. By the record of the case-keeper they were the deuce and the
jack--the top card, already shown, did not count.

"The jack," said Rimrock and piled up his money on the enameled card on
the board.

"You lose," rasped out Bray without waiting for the turn and then drew
off the upper card. The jack lay, a loser, in the box below and as he
shoved it slowly out the deuce appeared underneath.

"How'd you know?" flashed back Rimrock as Bray reached for his money,
but the gambler laughed in his face.

"I outlucked you, you yap," he answered harshly. "That dealer--he
wasn't worth hell room!"

"Gimme a fiver to eat on!" demanded Rimrock as Bray banked the money,
but he flipped him fifty cents. It was the customary stake, the sop
thrown by the gambler to the man who has lost his last cent, and Bray
sloughed it without losing his count.

"Go on, now," he said, still keeping to the formula, "go back and
polish a drill!"

It was the form of dismissal for the hardrock miners whose earnings he
was wont to take, but Rimrock was not particular.

"All right, Ike," he said and as he drifted out the door his prosperity
friends disappeared. Only L. W. remained, a scornful twist to his
lips, and the sight of him left Rimrock sick. "Yes, rub it in!" he
said defiantly and L. W., too, walked away.

In his sober moments--when he was out on the desert or slugging away
underground--Rimrock Jones was neither childish nor a fool. He was a
serious man, with great hopes before him; and a past, not ignoble,
behind. But after months of solitude, of hard, yegging work and hopes
deferred, the town set his nerves all a-tingle--even Gunsight, a mere
dot on the map--and he was drunk before he took his first drink. Drunk
with mischief and spontaneous laughter, drunk with good stories untold,
new ideas, great thoughts, high ambitions. But now he had had his
fling.

With fifty cents to eat on, and one more faro game behind him, Rimrock
stood thoughtfully on the corner and asked the old question: What next?
He had won, and he had lost. He had made the stake that would have
taken him far towards his destiny; and then he had dropped it,
foolishly, by playing another man's game. He could see it now; but
then, we all can--the question was, what next?

"Well, I'll eat," he said at last and went across the street to Woo
Chong's. "The American Restaurant" was the way the sign read, but
Americans don't run restaurants in Arizona. They don't know how. Woo
Chong had fed forty miners when he ran the cookhouse for Rimrock, for
half what a white man could; and when Rimrock had lost his mine, at the
end of a long lawsuit, Woo Chong had followed him to town. There was a
long tally on the wall, the longest of all, which told how many meals
Rimrock owed him for; but Rimrock knew he was welcome. Adversity had
its uses and he had learned, among other things, that his best friends
were now Chinamen and Mexicans. To them, at least, he was still El
Patron--the Boss!

"Hello there, Woo!" he shouted at the doorway and a rapid-fire of
Chinese ceased. The dining-room was deserted, but from the kitchen in
the rear he could hear the shuffling slippers of Woo.

"Howdy-do, Misse' Jones!" exclaimed Woo in great excitement as he came
hurrying out to meet him. "I see you--few minutes ago--ove' Ike Blay's
place! You blakum falo bank, no?"

"No, I lose," answered Rimrock honestly. "Ike Bray, he gave me this to
eat on."

He showed the fifty-cent piece and sat down at a table whereat Woo
Chong began to giggle hysterically.

"Aw! Allee time foolee me," he grinned facetiously. "You no see me
the'? Me playum, too. Win ten dolla', you bet!"

"Well, all right, Woo," said Rimrock. "Just give me something to
eat--we won't quarrel about who won."

He leaned back in his chair and Woo Chong said no more till he appeared
again with a T-bone steak.

"You ketchum mine, pletty soon?" he questioned anxiously. "All lite,
me come back and cook."

Rimrock sighed and went to eating and Woo remembered the coffee, but
somehow even that failed to cheer.

A shadow of doubt came across Woo's watchful face and he hurried away
for more bread.

"You no bleakum bank?" he enquired at last and Rimrock shook his head.

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