The Promise Part 22

"An' I run an' hitched up the team an' druv to Hilarity h.e.l.l bent fer a potlatch--that's the way of it--s'elp me G.o.d it is! If you don't b'lieve it ask Moncrossen--ask Moncrossen, I mean, if he didn't have no booze along--he must 'a' been drunk--an' him crippled thataway!

"Oh, Lordy, Lord! I ain't supposed to know it was the greener, let alone he was crippled! I'm all mixed up a'ready! They better not go askin' me questions lessen they want to git me hung--G.o.da'mi'ty! I'd ort to done like Moncrossen said!"

So he raved in a frenzy of terror as the horses sped southward at a pace that sent the steam rising in clouds from their heaving sides.

And under the big tarpaulin in the rear of the sled-box the greener grinned as he listened, and eyed the gibbering man through a narrow slit in the heavy canvas.

CHAPTER XXI

DADDY DUNNIGAN

It was broad daylight when Creed pulled the team up before a tumbled-down stable in the rear of one of the outstraggling cabins at the end of Hilarity's single street. Hastily he unhitched and led the horses through the door.

As he disappeared Bill slipped from under the canvas and limped stiffly around the corner of the stable, and none too soon, for as Creed returned to the sled for the oats and blankets the cabin door opened, and a tall, angular woman appeared, carrying an empty water-pail.

"So ye've come back, hev ye?" she inquired in a shrewish voice. "Well, ye're jest in time to fetch the water an' wood. Where d'ye git that rig?" she added sharply, eying the sled.

"None o' yer d.a.m.n business! An' you hurry up an' cook breakfast ag'in'

I git back from Burrage's, er I'll rig you!"

"Yeh, is that _so_? Jest you lay a finger on me, you d.a.m.n timber-thievin'

boot-legger, an' I'll bust you one over the head with the peaked end of a flatiron! Where ye goin' ter hide when the owner of them team comes a huntin' of 'em? Ha, ha, ha!"

"Shet up!" growled the man so shortly that the woman, eying him narrowly, turned toward the rickety pump, which burbled and wheezed as she worked the handle, filling the pail in spasmodic splashes.

"One of Moncrossen's teamsters got burnt up in the shack at Melton's No. 8, an' I found the team in the stable an' druv 'em in," he vouchsafed as he brushed by the woman on his way to the street.

"'Twouldn't look right if I shet up about it; I'll be back when I tell Burrage."

"Fetch some bacon with ye," called the woman as she filled her dirty ap.r.o.n with chips. She paused before lifting the pail from the spout of the wooden pump and gazed speculatively at the tote-sled.

"He's lyin'," she said aloud. "He's up to some fresh devilment, an'

'pears like he's scairt. Trouble with Creed is, he ain't got no nerve--he's all mouth. I sure was hard up fer a man when I tuk _him_--but he treats me middlin' kind, an' I'd kind of hate to see him git caught--'cause he ain't no good a liar, an' a man anyways smart'd mix him up in a minit."

She lifted the pail and pushed through the door of the cabin.

"Nice people," muttered Bill as he cast about for an exit.

Keeping the stable in line with the window of the cabin, he made his way through a litter of tin cans and rubbish, gaining the shelter of the scrub, where he bent a course parallel with the street.

He was stiff and sore from his cramped position in the sled, and his foot pained sharply. His progress was slow, and he paused to rest on the edge of a small clearing, in the center of which, well back from the highway, stood a tiny cabin.

In the doorway an old man, with a short cutty-pipe between his lips, leaned upon a crutch and surveyed the sky with weatherwise eyes.

Bill instantly recognized him as the old man with the twisted leg who tendered the well-meant advice upon the night of his first arrival in the little town, and his face reddened as he remembered the supercilious disregard with which he had received it.

For a moment he hesitated, then advanced toward the door. The old man removed his cutty-pipe and regarded him curiously.

"Good morning!" called Bill with just a shade of embarra.s.sment.

"Good marnin' yersilf!" grinned the other, a twinkle in his little eyes.

"May I ask where I will find a man called Daddy Dunnigan?"

"In about foive minutes ye'll foind um atein' breakfust wid a shtrappin' young hearty wid a sore fut. Come an in. Oi'm me own housekaper, cook, an' bottle-washer; but, av Oi do say ut mesilf, Oi've seen wor-rse!"

"So you are Daddy Dunnigan?" asked Bill as he gazed hungrily upon the steaming saucers of oatmeal, the sizzling ham, and the yellow globes of fresh eggs fried "sunny side up."

"Ye'll take a wee nip befoor ye eat?" asked his host, reaching to the chimney-shelf for a squat, black bottle.

"No, thanks," smiled Bill. "I don't use it."

"Me, nayther," replied the other with a chuckle; "Oi misuse ut," and, pouring himself a good half tin cupful, swallowed it neat at a gulp.

The meal over, the men lighted their pipes, and Bill broached the object of his visit. The old man listened and, when Bill finished, spat reflectively into the wood-box.

"So Buck Moncrossen sint ye afther me, did he?"

"Yes. He said you were a good cook, and I can certainly bear him out in that; but he said that you would only work if you d.a.m.n good and felt like it, and if you didn't you wouldn't." The old man grinned.

"He's roight agin, an' Oi'll be tellin' ye now Oi d.a.m.n good an' don't feel loike wor-rkin' f'r Moncrossen, th' dirthy pirate, takin' a man's pay wid wan hand an' shtealin' his timber wid th' other. He'd cut th'

throat av his own mither f'r th' price av a dhrink.

"An' did he sind ye down afoot an' expict me to shtroll back wi' ye, th' both av us on crutches?"

"No, I have a team here," laughed Bill. "They are in Creed's stable."

"Creed's!" The old man glanced at him sharply. "Phwat ar-re they doin'

at Creed's?"

"Well, that is a long story; but it sums up about like this: I see you know Moncrossen--so do I. And Moncrossen is afraid I will crab his bird's-eye game--and I will, too, when the proper time comes.

"But he saw a chance to get rid of me, so he sent me after you, probably knowing that you would not come; but it offered an excuse to get me where he wanted me. Then he framed it up with Creed to steal the team in the night while I was camped at Melton's No. 8, and leave me to die bushed.

"I built a fire in the shack, ate my supper, rigged up a dummy near the fire, and then went out to the sled and crawled under the tarp. After making sure that I was asleep Creed stole the team as per schedule, but he did not stop at that. He decided to make sure of me, so he locked the door on the outside and fired the shack. I remained under the tarp, and as Creed was going my way I let him do the driving. While he put up the team I slipped out the back way, and here I am."

"Th' dirthy, murdherin' hound!" exclaimed the old man, chuckling and weaving his body from side to side in evident enjoyment of the tale.

"An' phwat'll ye do wid um now ye're here?" The old man sat erect and stared into the face of his guest, whose eyes had narrowed and whose lips had curved into an icy smile.

"First, I'll give him the d.a.m.nedest licking with my two fists that he ever got in his life; then I'll turn him over to the authorities."

Daddy Dunnigan leaned forward and, laying a gnarled hand upon his shoulder, shook him roughly in his excitement:

"Yer name, b'y? Phwat is yer name?" His voice quavered, and the little eyes glittered between the red-rimmed lids, bright as an eagle's. The younger man was astonished at his excitement.